The Way to Love
by HDKingsbury
Summary: What if, after overhearing Christine's rooftop confession, Erik does not declare war upon them both, but realizes that he must change in order to win a woman's love? Slightly Leroux, a touch of ALW, but mostly AU. E/C. Rated M for violence and sensuality.
1. Rooftop Confessions

"The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost."

-G. K. Chesterton

"I had a ring in my hand, a gold ring that I had given her and that she had lost and I had found. A wedding ring. I slipped it onto her finger and told here, 'Here, take this. It's for you...and for him...It will be my wedding gift...the gift of "poor unhappy Erik." I know that you love the young man. Don't cry anymore.'"

-Erik to the Daroga, _The Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

**The Way to Love  
****By HDKingsbury  
With Significant Contributions by Lizzy  
**

**Summary:** What if, after hearing Christine's rooftop confession to Raoul, Erik – the Phantom of the Opera – does not declare love upon them both, but realizes that it is he who must change if he is ever to win a woman's love? All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system – available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

Vowing to make himself a better person, Erik abandons Paris and sails to America, and on his first day in New York City is attacked by a street gang when he mistakenly takes a cab to the wrong side of town. Suddenly, the man who has always prided himself on his self-sufficiency now must rely upon the kindness of strangers. Over the next few months, the Phantom becomes a man, making friends and starting a new life. But his past eventually catches up with him when Christine Daaé is invited to sing on the stage of the brand-new Metropolitan Opera House stage, and an implacable enemy he'd long thought dead makes an appearance as well.

Copyright © 2008  
H D Kingsbury

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system -- available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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**Chapter 1  
Rooftop Confessions**

"Christine, Christine! Something tells me that we're wrong to wait for tomorrow night. We should leave tonight."

Erik listened intently as Raoul de Chagny's words cut through the air. Not wanting to risk being seen, he slunk deeper into the shadows. He knew that Christine had been confused of late, that she had been upset, but Erik was dismayed at the scene of that was playing itself out before his eyes. It bordered on physical pain to listen to this twaddle of hers, her belief that she was safe up here, on the roof.

Did she think him a troll out of one of her Scandinavian fairy tales? Did she think he never went outside, that he didn't know what sunlight was? Not that there was any sunlight today. On the contrary, the late afternoon sky was as dark and gloomy as Erik's mood. Lowering clouds swiftly scudded across the sky as a cold north wind picked up. He saw Christine rub her arms, and immediately his heart softened.

_The poor, foolish child; she's forgotten to wear a wrap, as usual_.

Erik put his hands to his temples, attempting to massage away the throbbing pain that was gathering there.

_I should leave now,_ he told himself. _You already know the truth, that she prefers her handsome vicomte to her "poor Erik."_

Poor Erik, indeed! He started, fearing he'd spoken those last words out loud. It would never do to draw attention to himself, not with both of them present. And so Erik remained hidden in the dark recesses of Apollo's Lyre, alternating between outraged fury and self-pity.

Christine paced on the rooftop, wringing her hands and fighting back tears. Erik could not tell if she was truly frightened, or a supremely gifted actress. He did not know which he preferred, as both cut deeply. "I can't just leave him, Raoul. I tell you, he will be in agony if he doesn't hear me tomorrow night," she pleaded with Raoul, the little throb in her voice breaking even Erik's angry heart. "He deserves better from me," she added, her voice almost a whisper.

"But…Christine, it doesn't matter when you leave. If you run away from him forever, it will be hard _not_ to cause Erik pain," Raoul countered.

"You're right about that," she replied, her voice forlorn and bereft of hope. "If I leave him, my flight will surely kill him." Then, in a muffled voice, she added, "But it's risk either way, because if we stay, _he_ may…," she faltered before continuing, "…he may kill us."

_What? _

Erik couldn't believe his ears. He had thought himself prepared for anything she would say, but not this.

_Kill them? Does she truly believe that I would do that? Have I sunk so low in her eyes that she believes I would kill her and her lover? _

Then he realized that, only moments ago, he might have been capable of committing the very act he now abhorred. As quickly as it had come, the fury and the rage drained out of him, leaving Erik cold and numb, like the late autumn air around him.

The world seemed to spin around him, and an insane thought crossed Erik's mind as he looked down at the street below and wondered what it would be like to simply let go and fall through the air. He choked back a bitter laugh.

_It's not the fall that would kill you; it's the sudden stop at the end._

No, Erik dismissed such ideas. He knew that, no matter how painful it was, he would stay where he was, watching and listening, as Christine tore his heart to shreds and tossed the pieces to the wind.

He watched through tear-clouded eyes as Raoul took her in his arms and held her close. "Does he really love you?"

She nodded, her shoulders slumped in resignation. "Yes, Raoul; I believe he does. I believe he would do anything to possess me."

"But surely, we can find where he lives. Let's go tonight; let's tell the authorities. They can go looking for him. Now that we know that Erik is no phantom, he can be talked to and made to answer."

A sneer played across Erik's lips.

_That's what you would like to think, boy! _

Christine shook her head. "No, you mustn't do that! There's nothing to be done…except to flee."

_That's right, Christine – flee. No one is going to find Erik. Not unless Erik wants them to, and I don't think I'm ready for that just yet. _

Raoul made a disgusted noise. "You act as if you don't want anyone to find him. Is that it?"

"Yes…no…I…I don't know, Raoul." She pulled away from the vicomte and walked towards the base of the statue, putting some distance between the two of them. "I don't know how to explain this. I'm afraid of him, but…but I don't want to hurt him."

Raoul stood dumbfounded. "I don't understand you, Christine. You told me before that you were able to leave him when you were down there. If so, then why did you return to him?"

"Because it was necessary. Let me try to explain it to you and tell you know how I got away from him."

"Ah, how I hate him," cried Raoul. "And you, Christine. Tell me so that I can keep myself calm as I hear the conclusion of this extraordinary love story. Tell me, Christine, do you hate him?"

Erik stood perfectly still, as eager as Raoul to hear her answer.

_Yes, Christine. Tell him…and tell me – do you hate me?_

Christine replied simply, "I…I don't know."

The vicomte stepped back, startled by her response. "Oh, I understand now. You're not really afraid of Erik," he said sarcastically. "The truth is that all this talk of fear and terror is actually love. It's love of the most exquisite kind. The kind that one doesn't dare admit, not even to one's self."

"No, Raoul. It's not like that," Christine pleaded, tears streaking her face.

"But of course it is! It is the kind that makes you shiver when you think about it. Just imagine, a man who lives in an underground palace."

In spite of all she had said and done, Erik found he was still ready to defend Christine, to jump out of the shadows and throttle the boy. Instead, he stood back and fumed.

_How dare you talk to her like that!_ _How dare you?_

But Erik forced himself to remain calm and retreated back into the shadows, silent as a ghost.

"Then you want me to go back there, back to him?" Christine interrupted harshly. "Be careful what you wish for, Raoul. I've told you, if I ever return to Erik, I won't ever be able to come back again."

A terrifying silence ensured among the three of them…the two who spoke and the shadow behind them who listened.

"Before I answer," Raoul said slowly, "I would like to know what feeling _you_ have about _him,_ since you do not hate him."

"Horror," she said, flinging the word with such force that it drowned out the night's sighs, and the moans that escaped from Erik's lips. "It's true," she began again, increasingly feverish. "He horrified me, but I don't hate him. How can I hate him? Try to imagine, Raoul. Imagine him at my feet in his home beside the underground lake. He admitted his charade and cursed himself, imploring my forgiveness! He told me that he had worshiped me from afar, and set a great and tragic love at my feet. He said he had abducted me out of love. That he kept me with him, underground, out of love."

"The cad!"

"No, it's not like that. He…he has never hurt me, but has always treated me with the utmost respect. When he took me to his little house, he groveled before me, moaning and weeping. It's true; I was frightened at first, but then I told him that I could only despise him unless he restored my freedom, and, incredibly, he did just that. He told me I had only to leave. He had already shown me the secret way. Only…only…" She hesitated.

"What is it?" Raoul asked, gentler this time.

"Even though he is neither the Phantom nor a genie nor an angel, he is still the Voice. And if he sings to me again, I will listen—and I will stay."

The young lovers continued talking, but it was hard for Erik to concentrate on their words. The more he listened, the more he came to physical pain. He was sickened by what he had done to this young girl. Time lost all meaning as he lost track of what was being said and he felt his control over the situation, his control over Christine, slipping away. He looked over at the two of them and forced himself to pay more attention. She was talking about his face – his god-forsaken, cursed face. She was saying how she had convinced him that she could bear to look at it. His vision blurred for a moment, and he blinked hard.

_How could I have been such a fool?_

"I said to him, 'Erik, show me your face without fear. I swear that you are the unhappiest and the most sublime of men, and if I ever shudder again when I look at you, it will be because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius.'"

"And did he believe you?" the boy asked. "What did he do then?"

"He turned around because he believed me. I believed myself, too, regrettably. I had faith that I could do this, but I was wrong. He had been playing on the piano and came over to me. He fell at my knees with words of love." She choked back a sob. "With words of love in that mouth of Death. He kissed the hem of my skirt, but he never looked up, never saw that my eyes were closed."

Christine stopped speaking as Raoul took her gently into his embrace. He wiped the tears from her face. The two stood quietly, feeling safe in each other's arms. Finally, Christine spoke again. "I…I don't know what more to say. Now you know the tragedy. For two weeks, I stayed with him. During that time, I was filled in turns with pity, enthusiasm, despair, and horror. He believed me when I told him I would return."

_He believed me. He believed me. _

The words echoed in Erik's ears and accompanied the final knife thrust into his heart. Not one word of love came from her mouth. He knew now that there was no hope of ever winning Christine's love.

"And you _did_ return," groaned Raoul.

"Yes, I did, but it was not the frightful threats that accompanied my being set free which helped me to keep my word. It was the heartbreaking sob that he gave on the threshold of his tomb. Yes, that sob," Christine repeated, shaking her head sadly, "bound me more to the unhappy man than I myself realized at the time of our good-byes. Poor Erik. Poor Erik!" And she sobbed openly now.

Erik sobbed, too, but ignored the tears, ignored them as they collected against the fabric of his mask.

_I don't want your pity, Christine. I only wanted your love! _

"Christine," said Raoul, "you tell me that you love me. You won't admit it, but I know you're afraid. I must know, though – do you love me? Tell me the truth, Christine. If Erik were handsome, would you love me?"

She looked into his face, confusion registering upon her own. "Oh, Raoul! Why do you ask me such things, things I keep hidden deep in my conscience, as if they were a sin?" She hesitated slightly, and then forced herself to smile. "If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips. For the first and last time, take them."

And they kissed.

The world turned black as the pounding in his head grew louder and matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. Erik fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around his chest, which felt as though it would explode at any moment. Never in his miserable excuse of a life had he felt so devastated or so alone. He cursed himself, he cursed God, and he cursed his face, despairing that he had lost his last chance to ever know a woman's love – to ever know Christine's love.

-0-0-0-


	2. Decisions

**Author's Note:** A big thank you to everyone who stopped and read the first chapter of this story, and who marked it for chapter alerts, and an even bigger one to those of you who left a review. Many, many thanks. For those of you who worry about starting a story that won't be finished, no fear of that happening. This story is complete. What I am doing now is going over each chapter and polishing it up, so updates will be regular. With that said, here is chapter 2.

* * *

**The Way to Love  
****Chapter 2  
****Decisions**

A gust of wind brought Erik to his senses. He looked around, trying to ascertain how long he had been on the roof. The sun had long since set and the clouds had gone, leaving the sky clear and cold with distant stars winking in mockery at him. Off in the distance, he heard the bells of Notre Dame tolling the hour. He counted the number of times the main bell clanged. Midnight. He looked around. Raoul and Christine were nowhere to be seen. Pragmatic enough not to wish to spend the rest of the night in the cold, Erik forced himself to move. He strained to move half-frozen limbs, clenching and unclenching his fists several times to force blood to circulate through stiff, numb fingers rather than out of anger.

Across the way, pale light outlined of the door he had exited earlier, and as he stumbled in that direction, towards the warmth of the interior of the opera house, he caught the glint of something metallic near his foot. He looked down, and saw something gold winking in the moonlight at his feet. He bent down to pick it up. It was the gold band he had given to Christine. She probably had no idea it was lost.

Erik stared at the ring, remembering the day he had given it to her. "As long as you keep it, you will be safe from all danger and Erik will be your friend," he had told her. It was meant to be a gift of friendship, but from her words tonight, she must have mistaken them for a veiled threat. He rolled the ring between his fingers. "But Erik never meant you any harm. Truly he didn't."

_Since when did you start thinking of yourself in the third person? _

"Who the hell are you?" Erik turned quickly, thinking someone had snuck up on him. Then he realized he was hearing his own thoughts.

_Your conscience? _the voice suggested sarcastically.

"I don't need a conscience."

_No, of course not. You are the great Erik. You need no one, nothing. Bah, you're pathetic! _

"Go away! I don't have to explain myself to you or anyone else. Just leave me alone."

_Why? So you can wallow in self-pity? Besides, I like it here. Now, answer my question. You can't, can you. Then maybe I can. You started thinking of yourself in the third person when you lost your humanity, when you started putting your own lust above the needs of an innocent young woman. She knew nothing of the world, damn it! How could you have stooped so low?_

Erik pleaded with himself for understanding, unable to bear the assault of his own conscience. "No" he shouted. "You're wrong. It's not like that. I…I love her."

_Love? You call what you did to her love? You are a wretched creature, Erik. You abduct the young lady, you rail at her when she insists upon seeing your face, you threaten, you use your Voice to bend her will to yours. Is that what you call love? I call it manipulation._

"But…you're wrong," Erik whimpered. "I love her."

_You can't admit the truth, not even to yourself. You're a fake, a charlatan. You are unworthy of love._

Dejected and defeated, Erik tucked the ring into his pocket and headed inside.

He made his way silently through the vacant opera house, knowing the layout as well as a man knows the back of his hand. If he had wanted to, he could have walked through the building with his eyes closed tight and never once bump into anything, he was that familiar with it. As he passed through one of the darkened corridors, on his way to the stairs that led to the cellars and to his house, Erik almost stumbled over a body lying on the floor.

He knelt down, wondering if someone had died. Instead of a corpse, however, he discovered it was the sleeping form of one of the stagehands, Joseph Buquet. Erik sniffed.

_Pah! Drunk and passed out again._ _The stupid fool. Drinking will be his death one of these days!_

Erik got up and shook his head slowly. Paying no further heed to Buquet, he continued down to his house by the lake, more mindless automaton than human, running on instinct.

Once inside his house, he flopped down onto the sofa. Over and over, he asked himself what it was he ever saw in Christine. What was it about her that had made him think she would be different, that she would be able to love him for himself? Was it the innocence she had brought with her when she came to the opera house? Was it because he had felt for her, a frightened little bird relegated to the chorus for more than a year, that he believed she would reciprocate those feelings? Was it her loneliness that drew him to her, the thought that because she, too, had known suffering and loss, she might understand someone like him?

Whatever it was, he had grossly misjudged the situation. She turned out to be no different from the rest, judging him by his face. In fact, from what she had been telling de Chagny earlier, her imagination must have been working extra hard, for the hideousness she had described went far beyond the facts.

Erik got up and slowly made his way to his bed, mentally chastising himself at his folly while coming to the understanding that in his own despair at ever having someone to love, he had overlooked the fact that Christine was, in many respects, gullible and naïve, unfamiliar with the ways of the world. He lay in his bed, deep in thought. He still could not believe he had permitted himself to be dragged down to such depths, that he had threatened her, a complete innocent. Perhaps if she had been older, more worldly-wise; perhaps if he had taken his time…but it was too late now. The damage was done.

The next day, Erik woke up, not knowing how he had managed to sleep. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was afternoon. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he imagined what must have been going on upstairs. It would be a busy time above, with preparations for tonight's performance of _Faust_.

He went into the bathroom to wash. He looked into the mirror and assessed himself. Gazing back at him was a man in his early forties, tall and sinewy but hardly the living corpse Christine had made him out to be, and he had to wonder how she had ever come up with such an imaginative description. Taking care of himself, constantly climbing and descending numerous flights of stairs each day, routinely strolling the catwalks at night when cast and crew were gone (and sometimes during the day, just to put the scare into folks from time to time), and generally engaging in various manual activities on a regular basis, had kept him fit and trim. In fact, he knew that he was far more fit than many a man half his age, including that young de Chagny scamp. If it stopped here, Erik knew he could have competed with the best Paris could offer – and won. But then he looked up at his face. That was where the true distortion lay.

Erik removed the full-faced mask he wore even when alone in his house, and could only agree that what it covered was terrible, a deformation of misshapen flesh. The right side of his face bore the worst of the damage – a horrible landscape that was an outward manifestation of the pain in his soul. He tilted his head, noticing that on the right side, his nose appeared as if pushed in, giving the appearance of being non-existent when viewed from that side. His eyes were dark and, in the shadows, looked deep and sunken in, accentuating his lean stature.

There was a lump of flesh on his right temple, pressing against his eye. Lately it had been causing severe headaches and blurred vision that thankfully were not troubling him at the moment. He put a hand over the right side of his face and took note that exposed left side looked almost normal. Then he put his hand over the left side of his face. Staring back at him was the face out of a nightmare. He put his hand over the right side again and stared for several minutes.

Finally, an idea came to him. He went over to his desk and found a pair of scissors. Picking up the mask, he cut it in half down the middle. He tossed aside the left half, held the right side up to his face, and looked into the mirror again. He realized that, if he kept the mask a tan or flesh color, and fixed it so that it only covered the right side of his face, he could almost pass for normal.

For the next couple of hours, Erik worked hard on creating several new masks, ones that he felt would allow him to blend in with the crowd, as long as no one looked too closely.

The mantle clock struck four o'clock, and Erik's stomach rumbled. He set the aside the mask he had been working on and realized he was hungry. Not surprising, since he eaten nothing for two days. Not wanting to risk going outside just yet, he stealthily made his way to the opera house kitchens. There he helped himself to an assortment of foodstuffs, some to eat now, and a few things to take along with him so he would not have to keep coming back upstairs.

Hunger satisfied, his mind turned once again to what needed to be done. He was sure that it would be best for all involved if he never saw Christine Daaé again, and determined to make sure that she would not, accidentally or otherwise, make her way back to his house. With that in mind, he changed out the lock on the secret door on the Rue Scribe side, the door to which he had given her a key. He also deactivated the pivot mechanism on the mirror in her dressing room. No sense in making it easy for the authorities to find him, should she or the vicomte decide to expose his whereabouts.

That evening he listened as Christine called to him from her dressing room, pleading with him, assuring him that she was singing for him alone. It took every ounce of willpower to resist her siren's call, but he refused to answer her and even forewent his usual seat in Box Five. Yes, he longed to see Christine once again, to hear her crystal clear voice, but he knew there needed to be a complete break, and so he remained in his house – alone.

By the next day, Erik had made up his mind that there was no way he could stay at the opera house much longer. Sooner or later, he would run into either Christine or her boy. They, in turn, would inform the authorities of his presence. Hunting parties would be formed, scouring the building from top to bottom. Even though Erik had gone to great pains to keep his house hidden from the casual eye and had covered his tracks well, it would not be long before someone would find him, and that would never do. He also knew that each time he saw her, even if she was unaware of his presence, his heart would break again. So he decided it was time to leave not just the opera house, but France itself.

But where to go? He pulled an atlas from his bookshelf and let the pages fall open where they may. Spread out before him was a flat map of the world. He considered the several languages he was adept in – German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, English, as well as a smattering of Eastern tongues. His fingers traced the outlines of several countries as he contemplated which place had the most to offer.

Eastern Europe and the Middle East were out of the question. He had been there before and had no desire to return. He turned to the rest of Europe. The Germans were too…Germanic; the Austrians were simply more Germans, the Italians too flamboyant, the Spanish too hot blooded, and the English too cold blooded. About to give up and wondering if he should take a voyage to the North Pole, he glanced down at the newspaper he had been reading the other day. His eyes alighted on a story touting the opportunities awaiting those who were daring enough to start a new life in America. Erik picked up the paper and read the story again, and made up his mind that he would go to New York City.

Now that the decision had been made, Erik almost looked forward to starting anew. Almost, but not quite. There would always be an emptiness in his heart, but he was no longer angry with Christine, only sorry for how things had ended. Even his anger with Raoul for interfering had bled away as Erik recognized that the only person responsible for this fiasco was himself. He vowed never to trouble Christine again.

-0-0-0-


	3. Departure

**Author's Note: **I've been asked if Erik's deformity is based upon the movie. Actually, it's not really based on any specific version of the Phantom, but is heavily influenced by ALW and the movie and is not like Leroux's living skull. If you like to envision Gerik, by all means, feel free to do so, although I was picturing a more severe disfigurement. I try to give enough description to help the reader form an image, and let imagination do the rest.

Also, I've been asked about **The Write Stuff**. My good friend, **MastersofNight** (she of _**Matchmaker**_, _**Sorcerer of Rouen**_, _**The Shell Game**_, and other PotO stories, as well as _**Storm Born**_, a fic based on Mary Shelly's Frankenstein), has a board for the primary purpose of helping and encouraging writers. Though many of us are Phantom enthusiasts, it is not strictly a PotO board. The board is called **The Write Stuff**. If you are interested, please check my profile for more information.

As for updates? I plan on updating on Sundays and Wednesdays. Hope that schedule works for you. Again, many thanks to everyone who is reading. Your reviews are much appreciated. -HDK

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**  
The Way to Love  
****Chapter 3  
****Departure**

The next morning, Erik woke up bright and early. Even five levels below the opera house, his internal clock knew the time. It was a talent he had developed during his many years of living alone, and often on the run. He wasted no time ruminating on what had taken place the other night on the rooftop. What had happened, happened. Nothing could change that. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to forget the past and look forward. For Erik, this meant he had a full schedule of errands to tend to this day. The sooner he was out of the opera house and out of Paris, the better.

He washed and shaved, then looked in his closet, remembering the old adage about clothes making the man. Today he needed to project the image of a perfect gentleman, and picked out a black morning coat and matching trousers, black shoes polished to a shine, a crisp, white dress shirt, and a charcoal waistcoat and tie. The ensemble was finished off with black leather gloves, black cashmere overcoat, top hat, silver-topped walking stick – and one of his new masks. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he was satisfied with what he saw.

Making sure he had enough money with him to pay for the smaller purchases he planned on making, and for cab fare, Erik made his way upstairs and slipped out the secret Rue Scribe door. Once outside, he allowed himself to blend in with the pedestrian traffic. Once he was far enough away from the opera house so as not to draw attention to his proximity to the building, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to take him to his bank. The driver paid little attention to Erik's face, accepted the fare, and drove to the bank.

-0-0-0-

The interior of the bank was large, almost cavernous. All in all, it was a well-appointed establishment with mahogany and marble-topped counters, mahogany wainscoting, polished granite flooring, ornate painted plasterwork touched with gold leaf along upper portions of the walls and the ceilings – all of which proclaimed this to be a place where one's money was safe and secure. Along one side were small alcoves where the bank manager and assistant managers carried on the business of the institution's wealthier clients in a more private atmosphere.

It was still rather early in the morning and the main room was sparsely populated, the few folks inside speaking in hushed tones, as if they were in a mausoleum rather than a financial institution. Erik chuckled to himself at the comparison as he walked over to the manager's desk and stopped in front of it.

A wiry little man sat behind, scribbling away at a pile of letters on his desk. He glanced up. A smile of recognition formed on his face as he saw who it was before him. "Ah, Monsieur Duquesne," he greeted Erik. "How good to see you. Please, won't you sit down? Would you like something? A cup of that Russian tea you favor?" The man motioned to one of the female employees, who returned shortly with a tray bearing a tea service and some biscuits.

"Monsieur Villeneuve," Erik acknowledged the manager, adding a polite if slightly impersonal smile. Erik had been a customer of this branch for several years now. Once a month, he would come by to deposit 20,000 francs, his "salary" from the opera house. Erik knew that the branch manager, August Villeneuve, was quite accustomed to dealing with his wealthy, if eccentric, customer.

He took a seat opposite Villeneuve and accepted a cup of the strong brew he enjoyed so well. "Thank you," he said, noting with pleasure Villeneuve's positive reaction to the mask.

_This is good._ _The half-mask is less intimidating. Perhaps things will go more smoothly after all._

"Now, Monsieur Duquesne, how may we help you today?"

Erik explained his purpose in coming; that he was leaving Paris and France for an indeterminate period of time and would be staying in New York City, and wanted to transfer a significant amount of money to a bank in that city.

Villeneuve suggested the Bank of New York, extolling the virtues of this institution. "They have been around for a very long time," he added, "since 1784. It is the oldest bank in the United States."

Erik agreed to the choice, and sat patiently as Villeneuve set about drawing up the necessary documents and arranging for a transfer of funds. "This may take a while. If you would prefer to come back later and sign the necessary documents…?"

"Thank you but no, I do not mind waiting," Erik replied, helping himself to a biscuit, something he would never have indulged in when wearing his old full-face mask. He had been in such a hurry to leave this morning, that he had forgotten breakfast. The biscuit and tea would, he hoped, keep his stomach from growling and causing him yet a different form of public embarrassment.

At last, their business was concluded. Villeneuve presented Erik with the papers he would need to present to the manager at the Bank of New York when he was ready to open his account there, including a letter of introduction.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Monsieur Duquesne? Perhaps you would like to go over your other documents. Do you have a will? It is not something we like to talk about, but it is an unfortunate truth that traveling such distances does have its risks. And it never hurts to review one's will."

Erik considered for a moment. Several months ago, when he had dreamt of his relationship with Christine blooming into true love, he had actually sat down and drawn up a will. Christine Daaé was, of course, his primary beneficiary. He had also made provisions to establish an endowment for the ballet rats. In spite of the situation having turned sour, even though he found himself feeling he would be more valuable to certain people dead than alive, he decided to leave matters as they stood.

"No, my will is up to date. There is no need to change anything there. There is, however, another matter with which I could use some help. You see, I have never traveled by sea, and was wondering if you might be able to recommend a reliable and trustworthy booking agent, one who would be able to accommodate my…special needs."

"Certainly. May I suggest you call upon the Compagnie Générale Transatlantic?" Villeneuve wrote down the address and the name of the man to ask for. "Tell him August Villeneuve has sent you to him. You can rely upon the gentleman to handle all aspects of the voyage for you."

Throughout his business dealings that morning, Erik remained alert to the impression his new mask was making, and in spite of his best efforts not to, he could not help but think about Christine, about how she had never seen him conducting ordinary affairs, never saw him as a functioning member of society. Never saw him anywhere but in secluded, dark confines. Never once saw him in the light of day. But it was too late now, too late…

He turned his focus back to what Villeneuve was saying to him. Once their business was concluded, Erik proceeded to the booking agent.

-0-0-0-

Erik found the booking agent, a pudgy, gray-haired man named Depardeau, to be most cooperative, once he mentioned who referred him.

"You will be traveling first class?" Depardeau asked expectantly, looking at Erik over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

"But, of course," Erik replied. Again, the man's reaction to the mask was minimal, and Erik was sure that the new mask aided in projecting an air of respectability. Oh, Depardeau noticed it, all right, but he was too much a professional and too much a gentleman to remark upon it.

Erik considered the situation. He had always been able to command authority, but that had been accomplished through implied menace, and the commonly held idea that a man covering his entire face was often being considered to be a person with hidden sin. Erik knew that people like Villeneuve and Depardeau respected money, and behaved well towards him because they were gentlemen, but Erik was getting the distinct impression that they even more deferential towards him than before because _he_ was different – his behavior, his manner, his conduct, all seemed to have become more respectable, and all because of a new mask.

"May I suggest a suite on one of our newest ships, the _L'Oiseau Lyre_. Her first-class suites have all the amenities of a first-rate Parisian hotel and then some. She sets sail from Le Havre in two weeks. Will that be soon enough for you?"

"That will be more than adequate. The _L'Oiseau Lyre_ it shall be," agreed Erik. "I have done little traveling of late. Can you tell me what, if any, documents I shall need to enter the United States?"

The agent explained that none should be necessary. "First and second class passengers generally undergo a cursory inspection aboard ship," said Depardeau. "The Americans operate on the theory that if a person can afford to purchase a first or second class ticket, he is less likely to become a public charge in their country."

"A public charge? I don't understand. What do you mean by that?"

"That the person is less likely to become a burden for medical or legal reasons." The agent looked inquiringly at Erik's mask. "Do you have any medical issues, monsieur?"

Erik had expected curiosity, and had prepared a response. "No. The mask covers scars. I wear it as a courtesy to others, so as not to inflict my ugliness on them. They are unpleasant to look at, but do not constitute a medical condition that would endanger anyone."

The agent nodded in understanding. "Were you by any chance involved in the late war with the Prussians?"

Erik shrugged, evading the question. "Weren't we all?"

"Ah yes," Depardeau said, a touch of sadness in his voice. "My brother was killed by the Prussians. You have my sympathies."

Erik could almost read the man's mind, watching Depardeau come to his own conclusions that not only was his client quiet wealthy, but a veteran as well, a war hero. He suspected the agent would now be willing to do whatever he could to aid Erik.

"You mustn't worry about the inspection, Monsieur Duquesne. The doctors are gentlemen, and extremely discreet, but to aid in this matter, I shall also write a letter explaining your particular situation. Have you considered which hotel you will be staying at?"

Erik shook his head. "No. I was hoping you might be able to recommend one."

"There are a number of excellent hotels in New York City, but if you ask me, The Palace is the best."

Once again, Erik's business with the agent of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantic was finished in a most satisfactory manner, the ease with which it had been handled due, no doubt in large part, to the new mask.

Back out on the street, Erik's next stop was a bookseller. He explained to the clerk that he wished to purchase some guidebooks to help him when he arrives in New York City, and would prefer them to be in English. The clerk found just what Erik was looking for, and he left the story with a copy of _Appleton's Handbook of American Travel_ as well as Baedeker's latest guide for traveling in America.

Pleased with all he had accomplished in one day, Erik headed for home. As it was one of those rare warm autumn days, and because the mask seemed to be doing its job of helping him blend in among the populace, Erik decided to walk. Along the way, he passed a young couple, walking arm in arm. It was Raoul and Christine.

He tried not to appear obtrusive, but Erik could not prevent himself from looking at her. Her expression was difficult to read. He had expected to see her happy in her beau's company, but he was not sure. Was she happy? Content? He could not tell.

As the two of them walked past Erik, Christine turned her head in his direction. Erik's first instinct was to pull back into the shadows, but she seemed to look right through him. He was surprised at how she looked – her face drawn and pinched, as if she had not been sleeping well at night – and noticed that Raoul was making unsuccessful attempts to cheer her. Even when Erik tipped his hat to her as they passed, Christine's preoccupation with her thoughts caused her to not even notice. With his gentleman's attire and more-normal appearance, he was simply another face in the crowd. Part of him was pleased to have passed this ultimate test with flying colors, while the other part was hurt that she did not even recognize him. He tried to push the hurt away, to ignore the ache inside his chest, and walked on.

It was night; the last one Erik would spend in the Garnier and in Paris. Tomorrow he would be leaving for Le Havre and from there, to America. His luggage had already been sent ahead; all he had to do was present his boarding pass.

He looked around his house, knowing this would be the last time he would ever see it, that he would never be returning. There had been a time when he was sure he would die here, but it seemed that Fate had other plans. Wandering aimlessly from room to room, he said a silent good-bye to his home of so many years. Returning at last to his desk, he sat down – one final task left to perform. Taking a sheet of vellum stationery and picking up his pen, he began to write.

_My dearest Christine,_

_While I had hoped that you and I might some day grow to be true friends, I realize now that this was never meant to be. It was optimistic of me to have hoped for more, and I extend my heartfelt apology for any discomfort I may have caused you. Be assured that I shall trouble you no more. M__arry your young man. Grow in each other's love, and know that, in my own way, I loved you – and always will love you. _

_With my sincerest wishes for your happiness, I remain,  
__Your obedient servant,  
__Erik_

Finished, he carefully folded the paper and inserted it into an envelope. On the outside, he wrote _her_ name.

Leaving his house, he locked the door and threw the key into Lake Auverne. He climbed the five flights of stairs to the upper level, and wandered through the opera house as he bade farewell to an old and dear friend. He walked across the stage, looking out across the expanse of the auditorium, and recalled the many triumphs he had observed over the years, as well as more than a few not-so-triumphant moments.

His meanderings took him down the halls and corridors, and he stopped in front of Christine's dressing room. Pulling out his master key, he opened the door. The sight of the interior of the room nearly brought him to tears, but he managed to get hold of his emotions before they got the better of him. He walked over to the mirror, and put a gloved hand to its glassy surface, his mind going back to those earlier, halcyon days when he was still her Angel of Music. Knowing that he needed to leave this room quickly, before his resolve faded, he planned on laying the letter and the master key on the dresser, and then leave the building.

"Erik, you…you've come back! I've been hoping to see you again."

He turned, surprised to find Christine sitting in the shadows. "I…I didn't think you would be here this early in the morning," he said. This was not what he had wanted, to see her, to speak to her; he had wanted to make a clean break, to leave without painful good-byes.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, her voice tremulous. "I called for you, many times, but you didn't answer. I was worried."

Erik raised his hand, stopping her. "It's all right, Christine. I…I came by to say good-bye."

"Good-bye?" she repeated, incredulous.

She stood up, and in the faint light, Erik could see her tear-stained face. "Yes," he said softly, not wanting to upset her any more than she already was. "Now, don't cry anymore. I know that you love that young man. I was wrong to think there could have been something between us. That is why…I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"Far away. You won't have to worry about your 'poor Erik' anymore."

"But…I hoped we could talk. I wanted to explain…"

Erik shook his head sadly. "There's nothing to explain. Go to your young man, and be happy." Before she could say anything further, Erik brushed past her and out the door. As his footsteps echoed along the corridors, he never heard her call after him, never saw Christine read the note he'd left behind, never heard her grief-stricken sobs. If he had, he would never have been able to leave.

Outside, dawn was about an hour away. The city was still fairly quiet and Erik wandered the streets, telling himself that he was doing the right thing. At last, he knew it was time to go. He hailed a cab and headed for Le Havre.

-0-0-0-


	4. Arrival

**The Way to Love  
****Chapter 4  
****Arrival**

Erik found it hard to believe that it had been four weeks since the disaster atop the Garnier. Instead of five levels below the Garnier, he was now sitting in his suite aboard the _L'Oiseau Lyre_, reading. They had been asea for two weeks, the crossing having taken a little longer than expected. Three days out of Le Havre, they encountered a gale, the rough seas staying with them for several more days. Most of the passengers had kept to their cabins and the ship's doctor was constantly busy with numerous calls from patients suffering from _mal de mer_. Even Erik with his normally cast-iron stomach had felt under the weather for several days, which did nothing to improve his mood. But they finally out rode the storm, and all was well now.

Throughout the voyage, Erik kept to himself. Normally he would remain in his suite, having made arrangements to take his meals there. Several times, the captain had extended an invitation to the reclusive Monsieur Duquesne, asking if the gentleman would care to sup with him. Each time, Erik politely declined. He preferred his own company, and occupied his time with browsing through the tour guides he had purchased or reading the couple of favorite books he brought from his old house. He seldom came out except late at night, when the other passengers were snug in their berths.

On this particular evening, the sun had not yet set. Erik set aside his book, feeling agitated and restive. Knowing that rest of the passengers would be inside having supper, he decided to leave his room and to stroll the deck. After the earlier blustery weather, this evening's was like paradise. The air was warmer, the waters were still, and the breeze soft and refreshing. The light of the setting sun shimmered on the waves, and the water looked like molten gold.

Standing near the rail, he looked across the deck and saw a group of plainly dressed passengers from steerage class, sitting together on their part of the ship, as they were not permitted to mingle with the first and second-class passengers. They did not seem to mind, however, and were laughing and singing. Erik caught snatches of their songs, and noted that they were singing in some Slavic tongue. He looked closer, and saw that there were all ages – grandparents, parents, and children.

_Most probably have little more than the clothes on their backs, but they are happy. They are heading for a new life in the great land of America._

Erik looked out at them and envied them their lives.

_They may not have much, but they have each other – families, friends, neighbors – and are able to enjoy their simple pleasures._

In spite of their poverty, he could not help feeling that these people had all the riches of the world, while he had lived his whole life looking at other people or being gawked at by them, but never really being a part of them. He turned to the west – the direction they were heading – and watched the setting sun. Perhaps all would work out for the best. Perhaps, at last, he could have a fresh start in New York.

Before returning to his cabin, Erik reached in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the gold ring he had kept and looked at it once more. Turning it over between his thumb and forefinger, he recalled how it had looked the day he had put it on Christine's hand. It was a gold band with little ornamentation, beautiful in its very simplicity. He knew it was foolish on his part to have kept it; each time he looked at it, it only reminded him of his failure. He looked out at the water and considered throwing it overboard, but he could not bear to part with it. It was his only tangible memento of his brief time with Christine, and would serve as a reminder of what he would not – could not – every have: Her love. In the end, he put it back in his pocket and returned to his cabin, wondering what kind of ring de Chagny had given her.

Tomorrow they were expected to enter New York harbor. Tomorrow, Erik thought, for better or for worse, a new chapter in his life would begin.

-0-0-0-

Erik looked out the porthole. There, in front of him, was New York harbor, the water shimmering in the morning sun. His architect's eyes watched in fascination as the ship passed the massive construction project his guidebook told him was to be the Brooklyn Bridge. When opened, it would span the East River. The construction of the bridge had been underway since 1870, with expectations for it to be completed within the next couple of years.

A short time earlier, they had passed Bedloe's Island, which was eventually to be home to a gigantic statue, a gift of friendship from the people of France to their friends, the Americans; a goodwill gesture. The day would come when Liberty Enlightening the World would stand in the harbor like a modern Colossus. Erik wondered if he would be around to see it.

He walked around his room a few times, than sat down, fidgeting. Arrangements had already been made to forward his luggage to The Palace. All that was left for Erik to do was wait for the customs agent's interview. The steward had been by earlier to explain the process, and to reassured him that there should be no problem entering the United States, but that did not stop Erik from worrying. A knock on the door grabbed his attention.

"Monsieur Duquesne? It is the steward here with Mr. Mortimer Hibbard, the customs agent. May we come in?"

Erik took a deep breath and called for them to enter. Introductions were made, hands were shook, and the steward excused himself from the room as the two men took their seats.

"Welcome to New York, Mr. Duquesne," said Hibbard, a medium sized man with a full beard and luxurious sideburns.

Erik was silently pleased to hear the man pronounce his name correctly, having heard it mangled too many times and in too many ways during his years of traveling the continent. Although this was his first trip to America, he found he had little difficulty following the man's odd pronunciations. Whatever it was they spoke in America, he mused, it was not the Queen's English.

"This shouldn't take long," Hibbard said with amiable good nature. "I only have a few questions. First, are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," said Erik, "and if things go well, perhaps a little business, too. I've read that New York City is a veritable land of opportunity for enterprising persons, and am considering several possible business ventures."

Hibbard nodded affably. "You are a business man, then?" he asked.

Erik noted that while the questions sounded innocent enough, the man's eyes betrayed his sharpness. "I dabble in it," he replied in an off-handed manner.

"You must be pretty well off," Hibbard said with what Erik would later learn was typical New York bluntness. "Looks like you do right well – sumptuous suite, good clothes. Yes, I suspect you do all right."

Erik had to stifle a laugh at the man's lack of couth, reminding himself that it was Hibbard's job to ascertain the desirability of incoming passengers. The customs agent wanted to appear to be a country bumpkin, but Erik knew better. He hadn't spent the better part of his life reading other people to be taken in by Hibbard's act, and appreciated the other man's talent all the more.

To confirm Hibbard's suppositions as to his monetary well-being, Erik handed him one of the documents Villeneuve had prepared. "This should satisfy you as to my means," Erik explained. "The original is in French, and I have included an English translation for your convenience."

"That's mighty thoughtful of you, sir." Hibbard looked over the papers, his expression indicating that he could, in fact, read French. He whistled softly as he saw Erik's total worth. "Yes, I'd say you're pretty well-heeled." He handed the letter back to Erik. "Might I inquire as to where you're staying?"

"The Palace."

"Nice place. Real fancy. One last question. Do you have any medical conditions we should know about?" He looked directly at Erik's masked face.

Erik had been expecting this, and provided the same explanation he had given to Depardeau, an explanation he had given so many times over the years that he knew the words by rote. "I wear the mask to covers scars that were caused by injuries. They are unpleasant to look at, but are not a result of a medical condition that would endanger anyone. I have a letter explaining my situation, if you would care to read it."

"Sure, why not. Is it also in English? Might as well make it worth the time it took the fellow who wrote it. Make it all official, if you know what I mean." Hibbard read the paper and, satisfied with its contents, returned it to Erik.

"Will a medical examination be necessary?" Erik inquired.

"Don't see any need for that. You have been most cooperative, Mr. Duquesne." Hibbard rose, and Erik did likewise. The interview was over. "Thank you," said Hibbard, "and again, welcome to New York. Enjoy your stay. I have a feeling you'll do all right. Yes siree, a man like you can do well in a place like New York. Watch out for the guttersnipes and street arabs, though. They're can be a powerful nuisance in certain parts of town."

"Thank you, Mr. Hibbard; I can take care of myself," said Erik, wondering for the life of him what a guttersnipe was but assuming it was not something pleasant.

"I'm sure you can," Mortimer Hibbard said with a wink. "I'm sure you can."

-0-0-0-

Eager to be on his way, Erik disembarked from the ship as soon as he could and found himself surrounded by a literal sea of humanity. All around, he could hear snippets of conversations in nearly every language imaginable. Young boys swarmed like locusts around him and the other passengers getting off the ship, trying to get work as porters. Some would grab luggage and run ahead, calling a cab, in return for a tip. Once they saw that Erik had no luggage, most of the boys left him alone and went off in search of richer pickings, but occasionally one would be persistent. When that happened, Erik would give the lad his sternest, most Phantom-like scowl, and without his having to have to say a word, the boy would suddenly vanish, and Erik would continue to work his way through the throng in search of a cab so that would take him to The Palace.

Several times, he patted his coat, reassuring himself that the street urchins had not picked his pockets. He carried little actual cash on his person, and what he had he kept was kept in an inside pocket that buttoned shut. His letters of introduction and other documents were tucked into a secure hiding place – inside his boots.

Eventually disentangling himself from the crowd, he made several attempts to hail a cab, but had no luck. He began to wonder if possibly, his mask was spooking off those drivers who happened by, looking for fares among the newly arrived. Ready to give up on a cab, Erik considered walking. He tried several times to ask directions, but those he asked acted as though they could not understand what he was saying. This frustrated Erik all the more, as he knew that, while his French accent was obvious, his English was not unintelligible.

At last, he gave up and began to walk, not knowing where he would end up, only wanting to get away from the mass of humanity that seemed to be drawn to the docks. Sooner or later, he would find a person who could give him directions. Fortune seemed to smile upon him a few blocks later when a cabbie pulled up to the curb.

"Need a ride, mister?" the cabbie called to him. Erik nodded in the affirmative. "Climb on in then."

"I wish to go to The Palace. Do you know where it is?" Erik asked as he got in, closing the door tightly.

The cabbie laughed. "I know the city like I know the back of my hand. Don't worry; I'll getcha there," he said and, snapping the reins, drove away.

Exhausted, Erik laid his head back for a few minutes and closed his eyes. He had no idea how far The Palace was from the docks, but after a while, it seemed as though they had been driving for a considerable distance. "Are we almost there?" he called to the cabbie.

"Almost," the man replied, suddenly sounding none too friendly.

Erik opened his eyes and looked out the window. He watched suspiciously, as the buildings became shabbier and more rundown. This was not the fashionable part of town he had read about in the guidebooks. Erik was about to demand an explanation when the cab stopped.

"Here you are – The Palace."

* * *

**Historic Notes: **

I spent quite a bit of time, and had a lot of fun, looking over shipping lines and ships of the kind Erik might have taken on this voyage, as well as how he would be "processed" as an incoming alien. The interview Erik goes through is, in fact, a pretty accurate description of what a first or second class passenger would have went through. In short, if you had enough money to travel first class, customs didn't figure you'd be a problem and interviews were pretty much a formality. Being processed through Ellis Island was pretty much restricted to the lower or steerage class passengers (like my maternal great-grandparents). I would also like to acknowledge that Mortimer Hibbard is named for a third-great grandfather of mine.

Here are a couple other historical tid-bits:

The Brooklyn Bridge is one of the oldest suspension bridges in the United States, stretches 5,989 feet (1825 m) over the East River connecting the New York City boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn. On completion, it was the largest suspension bridge in the world and the first steel-wire suspension bridge. Originally referred to as the New York and Brooklyn Bridge, it was dubbed the Brooklyn Bridge in an 1867 letter to the editor of the _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_, and formally so named by the city government in 1915. Since its opening, it has become an iconic part of the New York skyline. In 1964 it was designated a National Historic Landmark. Construction began in January 3, 1870, and the bridge was completed thirteen years later and was opened for use on May 24, 1883. (Source: Wikipedia)

Bedloe's Island is today known as Liberty Island. It is a small uninhabited island in Upper New York Bay and best known as the location of the Statue of Liberty. The name Liberty Island has been in use since the early 20th century, although the name was not officially changed until 1956. Before the Statue of Liberty, Bedloe's Island was the home to Fort Wood, an eleven pointed star-shaped battery made of granite. Because of this, its nickname was "Star Fort". (Source: Wikipedia)


	5. Attack

**Author's Note:** Many, many thanks to my master beta, Lizzy, for her tremendous help with this chapter, and of course, to all my readers.

* * *

The Way to Love  
Chapter 5  
Attack 

Erik looked at the rundown building they were parked in front of, a crudely made brick structure that had seen better days, its windows caked with enough grime to make them opaque. "Would you care to explain this?" he demanded.

The driver pointed to the chipped and peeling sign hanging over the door. "What? Can't you read English? It says 'Palace Fine Spirits and Liquors'."

"Are you dense, man? This isn't the place I want. I asked to be taken to the Palace. It's a hotel, a very fashionable one."

The cabbie huffed and pouted. "That ain't what you said. You asked if I knew where the Palace was. Well, here it is. Damned French frog eaters, yer all alike. Putting on fancy airs, 'specting the rest of us to read your minds. I brought you to the Palace, and now I want my fare."

Erik bristled at the driver's derogatory slur but remained in his seat. "Is this some sort of dodge you run, deliberately taking strangers to the wrong destination?" He quickly assessed the situation. This was not the first tight spot he had been in and recognized a set up when he saw one. "You'll not get a cent until you take me to the Palace Hotel."

"You tryin' to gyp me out of my fare?" the cabby shouted louder than necessary. "You calling me a cheat?"

As if on cue, several brawny bullyboys came out of the Palace. "There a problem here?" one of them called out while another went over to the cab, opened the door, and insisted none too gently that Erik exit the vehicle. While this was going on, a couple appeared from the bar.

As soon as he was out of the cab, Erik found himself encircled by the ruffians. It didn't take long for Erik to realize that he could not make it if he tried to fight, especially since the closest thing he had to a weapon was his walking stick.

"This here 'gentleman' refuses to pay me my fare," the cabbie said indignantly, playing to the growing crowd.

"This so?" the first bully asked.

"This is not the destination I requested to be taken to," Erik explained, forcing himself to remain calm. He knew that in any physical dispute, he would be outnumbered, with the other side able to draw upon reinforcements who were within easy shouting distance.

"He's a liar," the cabby insisted. "He said he wanted to go to the Palace."

The leader of the toughs looked at the bar they had just come out of, then back at Erik. "Looks like the Palace to me," he said menacingly. He turned to his comrades. "Whadya say, boys? Is this the Palace?" They nodded and laughed sarcastically. "Look, mister, pay the man his fare and stop disturbing the peace."

Erik knew there was nothing to be gained by arguing with these people, neither did he wish to be stranded in a bad part of town. He turned to the cab driver. "Look, I do not want any trouble. I'll pay what I owe." He handed the money over to the cabbie, who quickly pocketed it. "If you take me to my hotel, there'll be an additional tip for you."

"I don't need fares like you," the cabby snapped, refusing to take him any further. He flicked the reins and drove off, muttering something about "damned foreigners taking over the city."

"Doesn't do any good arguing with a cabby," one of the strangers said to Erik. "Why don't you come on in and join us for a drink or two?"

The steely glint in his eyes suggested to Erik that the tough would not take 'no' for an answer. He sneered, refusing to back down in front of these men. The worst thing he could do was show fear. "I'd sooner die than drink in a place like this," he said with a snarl, drawing his own line in the sand, daring them to cross it.

"Have it your way," the man chuckled unpleasantly, his words sounding more like a threat than a friendly invitation. He glanced over at his comrades, all of them looking as if they, too, would prefer to see Erik dead than drinking their booze.

There were several tense moments during which no one said anything. Erik stood, poised to take action if needed. He grasped his walking stick in both hands, prepared to use it as a weapon. When the toughs saw that he was not going to back down, they tired of their game and went back inside, leaving Erik by himself.

He could hear the men deriding him with insults long after the doors had closed behind them, and the old familiar feeling of shame and humiliation washed over him. He brushed himself off and hurried into the deepening afternoon, distancing himself from their raucous laughter. Hopefully, he would find the way to his hotel without further incident – and without getting completely lost.

-0-0-0-

Erik inspected the neighborhood, trying to find some sort of landmark.

_Well now, you've gotten yourself into another fine mess. _

He pulled one of the guidebooks he'd brought with him, one with a map of the city. Unfortunately, it was too general to help, showing only the major thoroughfares and important landmarks.

_No sense standing here like a fool. Get your legs moving_._ Sooner or later, you're bound to find something that matches what's on that map…or someone who can direct you._

Orienting himself as best he could, he set off in what he hoped was the direction that would take him towards the hotel. It was getting late in the day, and he wanted to check in before nightfall. A glimmer of hope flitted through his mind that maybe he had chosen the correct direction, as he noticed an improvement in the buildings and more people on the streets. It was still a less than affluent neighborhood, but at least the properties were kept clean.

Several times he stopped a person to ask for directions, only to discover that many of the people here were recent immigrants to America themselves and knew little or no English, much less how to find the Palace Hotel. They were also shy about talking to strangers, and so he kept on walking.

"_Help me! Somebody!" _

Erik stopped in his tracks as a woman's cries cut through the air. He scanned the area in an attempt to ascertain where she was. There weren't many people on the street at that moment, and those that were appeared to be ignoring the woman when finally, Erik saw her.

"Please, help me!" she shouted out again. She was about a block away. Towering over her as she struggled was an older man holding her by the arms, shaking her. Erik looked around. No one was coming to the woman's aid.

"You there!" he shouted at the attacker. "What do you think you're doing?"

The man looked up, saw Erik bearing down upon the two of them, shoved the girl aside and ran off. By the time Erik reached her side, her assailant was long gone.

-0-0-0-

Erik knelt down beside her. Whoever she was, she was not a grown woman after all but a girl barely in her teens. She huddled against the wall of a building, crying. Erik could see a bright red blemish in the shape of a hand forming on her cheek, no doubt where the bastard had slapped her. Her dress was torn, exposing her breast. She clutched at the fabric, pulling it together modestly, but other than that, she did not appear to be seriously hurt.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

The girl looked up at him, her face blotchy from crying. She wiped her eyes. "I…I think so," she answered hesitantly.

"Did that man…did he hurt you in any way?"

She shook her head. "You must've scared him away before he could do anything."

Erik held out his hand, helping her to her feet. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Daisy." She looked him straight in the face, seemingly unfazed by the mask.

"Do you live near here?"

"A few blocks. I was on my way home when that…that man came at me." She shivered. "Would you…would you walk me home? I'd feel safer with you beside me. I mean, he might still be lurking around."

Erik scanned both sides of the street. "Have you ever seen him before?"

"I dunno. I'm scared. Can you just walk me home?"

Even though walking her home would take him out of the way, he could hardly leave the young girl on her own. He may have done some monstrous things in the past, but he would not stoop so low as to leave this child alone, not after what she had just been through. "Of course," he said, hoping that perhaps her family could provide him with directions to the Palace.

They walked a couple of blocks when Daisy pointed to an alley. "This way."

The passageway looked dark and secluded, the backs of tall brick buildings and the shadows they cast creating a cavern in the midst of the city. It was the perfect place for a mugger to be hiding. "Are you sure? It doesn't look safe to me."

"Quickly! We're almost there!" She smiled, her distress now gone.

Erik reluctantly agreed. After all, she knew the city far better than he did. As they turned into the alley, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head but caught only the fleeting glimpse of a shadow. All his senses told him something was wrong.

"It's only a little further," Daisy was saying, ignoring Erik's growing wariness. Taking him by the hand, she all but pulled him along.

They walked a few more feet. Erik was now alert. There was more movement. He stopped and turned, alarmed when he caught a glimpse of Daisy's attacker slinking back into the shadows. He turned back to the girl and gave her a long, hard look. For someone who had been assaulted only minutes ago, she seemed awfully calm, almost cheerful. He was beginning to suspect that the whole scene had been a charade, and that she and her so-called attacker were actually working together. Daisy was no victim; the real victim was to be Erik.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

She answered him by putting her hands to her mouth and blowing powder into his eyes.

-0-0-0-

Erik howled in pain and threw his hands to his face as his eyes burned. His whole head felt as if it were on fire. Blinded, he had no way of knowing if the effects were temporary or permanent. He heard the girl whistle shrilly, signaling to her gang. Panicked and reacting from instinct, he lashed out with his walking stick as he heard the footsteps rush in his direction. Someone grabbed the stick from his hand, and Erik lost his balance. He staggered backwards until he bumped against the wall.

The attack was swift and brutal. Already at a disadvantage, Erik never had time to defend himself, much less make an escape. Half a dozen young men, ranging in age from mid-teens to early twenties, surrounded him, pummeling him with kicks, punches, and small clubs. He flailed out with his arms, attempting to fend them off. Forced back against the wall, he lashed out with kicks, but there were too many. Hands grabbed him and threw him to the ground. Erik thrashed about, trying to get back onto his feet when a boot to his solar plexus doubled him over, knocking his breath away. Someone grabbed him by the hair and tore his mask from his face. Then a blow to his lower back from one of the truncheons paralyzed him and sent him sprawling to the ground. The pain was excruciating. There was no feeling in his lower extremities. He tried to straighten up but found he could not move, could not even think straight.

Helpless, he could do nothing as the roughs started rifling through his clothes, tearing off his coat and emptying his pockets. They were laughing among themselves, congratulating Daisy and her friend for a good job when a low menacing growl was heard. Erik tried to open his eyes and through narrow slits saw what looked like a wild wolf. The beast growled menacingly, and then bounded past him, lunging at one of his assailants, a snarling, vicious mass of fur and teeth.

Pandemonium filled the air as the fallen thug's comrades shouted and made motions to distract the beast long enough to pull him out of the way. Paralyzed, Erik wondered if he was going to be next. He closed his eyes and forced himself to lie still, hoping the animal would ignore him.

"What the devil's going on back here?" a man shouted. "You kids, what are you up to?"

The man's arrival sent the roughs scurrying away, leaving Erik lying on the ground. Powerless to ward off another possible attack, he waited for whatever was going to happen next.

"Wolf, what have you got there, boy?"

Erik felt a warm tongue licking his hand as the other man approached and knelt down next to him.

"Can you hear me? Looks like they roughed you up bad."

Erik tried to reply, concentrating hard to phrase his answers in English. "Can't…see," he said, his words slightly slurred from the pain. "Something…in my eyes."

"Probably ground up red pepper. Nasty stuff. We need to get you off the ground and in the house where we can get you cleaned up, let you rest a while."

Gingerly, the stranger put his arms around Erik's shoulders and helped him to his feet.

"Hard…to walk…" Erik panted as he tried standing on wobbly legs, grabbing a tight hold onto his rescuer.

"Did they get you in the kidneys?"

Erik gave a quick nod.

"Young toughs…they'd as soon kill a man as look at him. Lean on me. We've only got about 50 feet."

He had no choice but to trust the stranger. Erik allowed himself to be led away, leaning heavily on the man, as Wolf trailed along behind them.

* * *


	6. Ambrose Rice

**Author's Note:**

**New Phantom Anthology Coming this Summer. **We of **The Write Stuff** (see my profile for details) would also like to announce the publication of a new Phantom of the Opera anthology this summer – _Phantom Variations: Tales from the World of the Opera Ghost_. It will include stories by some of your favorite authors on FanFiction(dot)net (including yours truly), as well as some new authors. All proceeds will go to the Porphyria Foundation. I'll be posting details on my profile page as it gets closer to publication. Our target date is July 1, 2008.

Once again, thanks all for your kind reviews. Sure made MY day!! I got the idea of Erik having a run-in with some "roughs" by watching _Gangs of New York_. And yes, blowing the ground pepper into the eyes of a victim a common practice, a kind of early "pepper spray" as one reviewer put it. But enough of my blithering and on with the story and more about this mysterious stranger who rescued Erik.

* * *

The Way to Love  
**Chapter 6  
****Ambrose Rice**

Erik hated himself for being weak, for having to rely on someone else. He had always prided himself on his independence, but now he could not even open his eyes. He sat down on a chair, exhausted from his ordeal, and relaxed as best he could while the other man brought a pan of cool water and helped him wash the pepper from his face. He laid his head against the backrest and tried to calm down while the stranger tended his wounds.

As he sat, a frightening thought ran through his mind. What if those had not been untrained hooligans and thugs who had trapped him? What if had been _him_?

_No_, _that was long ago – in Persia_.

Even if _he_ were still alive, he surely must have given up by now. Erik winced, as much from his self-loathing as from the pain in his body. The last thing he needed was to berate himself. What he needed was a warm bed so he could recover his strength and get out of this hellhole as soon as possible.

"The…Palace," he murmured.

"What's that?" the man asked, placing a cool compress over Erik's eyes.

His mind still cloudy from the beating, Erik did not even care that his face was uncovered. "Where…I want…to go…"

"Shhh. Let an old army medic do his job. Let's get you cleaned up, and we'll get you to that fancy hotel later, after you've rested." The other man helped a reluctant Erik out of his clothes and over to a bed. Laying him down, the stranger tended to the numerous cuts and bruises, and placed more compresses on Erik's abdomen.

-0-0-0-

Erik was in the lobby of the Palace when he saw her standing at the top of the stairs. She held her hand out to him, motioning for him to follow her.

"Christine," he murmured.

"My love," she said softly, "My own true love, how much longer must I wait?" She stood on the landing, casting a beckoning glance over her shoulder.

He took the steps two at a time, and arrived in the doorway of her suite slightly breathless, unsure whether to follow her. The glow from the streetlamps below cast shadows in the room, and he peered inside uncertainly.

"Erik," she said. "Come here."

It was useless to resist. He would follow her anywhere; do anything she asked. Always, he was at _her_ service. He entered her room and closed the door behind him, turning the key to assure their privacy. The clicking of the turning bolt resonated in the stillness of the night.

Christine turned the gaslight higher, and Erik saw that she had slipped out of her cape. The light rain that had been falling all day had dampened her satin gown, and it clung to her curves. The warm glow of the gaslight, reflecting off the surface of her ivory gown, made her radiant. Never had she looked more angelic than as she did now, gesturing for him to sit. He obeyed, sinking like a stone onto the sofa.

She slipped off her shoes as she sat beside him, leaning ever so slightly against his shoulder. She tucked her feet underneath herself, and Erik watched, mesmerized, as she settled next to him. "How I have longed for this moment," she sighed.

He cleared his throat. "Why?" he asked nervously. "It wasn't so long ago that you never wanted to see me again."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" she said, resting her hand on his knee.

"Stop playing games with me," he growled, confused as old hurts reared their ugly heads. He brushed away her hand and focused on the lamp that glowed dimly in the darkness. He grimaced inwardly at the way he had spoken to her, but forced himself not to look at her.

_If I look into her eyes, I will be lost forever._

"Erik, look at me." She touched his chin and turned his head to face her, her eyes drifting slowly across his features. She gazed at him, lingering on his mouth, his eyes, his hair. He leaned into her hand and closed his eyes tightly as she cupped his face in her palm, unable to resist the warmth of human contact, the forbidden pleasure of her touch. "I thought I'd die when you left me," she whispered, kissing his temple, his cheek, his lips.

Moaning softly, Erik felt Christine's warm breath on his face as she kissed his cheek.

He opened his eyes. Gone were Christine and the eloquent bedroom. In their place was the hairy snout of a large dog looking down upon him, the two of them in a small, spartanly furnished bedroom.

-0-0-0-

Erik tried to clear the cobwebs from his head, but any movement only made the pounding worse, so he lay still. He thought perhaps the dog (or was it a wolf?) looking down upon him had been part of his dream, but as he opened his still swollen eyes, he found that such was not the case. Then he remembered the attack, and the animal that had come to his rescue.

The dog, a full-grown beast that looked to be part German shepherd and part wild animal, was sitting on its haunches, eyeing Erik intently. Erik, in turn, watched the animal to ascertain if that was a friendly smile on the dog's face, or if the creature was lining him up for its next meal. A name he heard yesterday (or was it the day before?) seemed to apply to the animal, and Erik gave it a try.

"Are you Wolf?" he asked tentatively.

The dog (or wolf, Erik still wasn't sure which it was) responded by wagging its tail, giving the animal the appearance of an overgrown puppy.

"I'll take that as an affirmative." Erik held out his hand, allowing Wolf an opportunity to accept him. "But you've already done that, haven't you, boy. You are a boy, aren't you?" He looked down. "Yes, I see that you are." Wolf grinned as he rose and walked over to Erik's side. Once there, he jumped up and rested his forelegs on the bed.

"Wolf, get down," another voice called out. It was his benefactor. Erik looked up, for the first time able to see the man. Judging from the man's snow-white hair, Erik deduced that whoever he was, he was up in years. The husky physique told Erik that this stranger was no weakling, and his dark eyes were sharp and alert.

"Ah! You're awake. That's good. I was worried that you might have suffered a concussion," the stranger said genially. "Wolf, get down," he called again to the dog, Reluctantly, Wolf left Erik's bedside and sat quietly next to the white-haired man, all the while keeping his eyes on Erik. "My name's Ambrose Rice, and I see you've already met Wolf. You are welcome to stay here until you're well enough to move on."

Erik realized the other man was waiting for him to introduce himself. "My name's Erik…" He paused, his suspicious nature flaring up. Considering everything that had happened since arriving in New York City, he wondered if it would be prudent to give his last name.

Ambrose Rice caught Erik's hesitation. "No need to tell me if you don't want to. Lots of people down on their luck don't like to give their full names."

"It's…it's not that," Erik said. The man seemed genuinely concerned, but it could all be an act. It was time to draw upon skills he had once used when while in the service of the Khanum of Persia, skills that had helped him trick more than one unsuspecting victim into disclosing the truth to someone thought of only as a foolish magician.

_Let him believe me helpless_, _and I shall watch him as he speaks, give him the opportunity to betray himself. _

Erik extended his hand and allowed the other think him feeble. "I …my mind's a bit fuzzy at the moment."

Ambrose nodded understandingly. He grabbed a ladder-back chair from the other side of the room and pulled it up close to Erik. "One of those blows to the head probably knocked you for a real loop."

Erik shot the other man a cautious smile, and put a hand to his face, ostensibly to feel any cuts or bruises, but in fact wanting to learn if he was wearing his mask. The last he remembered in the alley, the feel of someone pulling it off of him, and he kept his hand over the worst side of his face.

"Lookin' for this?" Ambrose asked, holding out the scuffed half-mask. "It was lying on the ground near where you were attacked yesterday."

Erik accepted the mask and tried to decide if he should bother putting it on. After all, Ambrose had already seen his face, and it still hurt like hell. He frowned, thinking that the mask might not fit while his face was swollen.

"Don't worry," Ambrose said, reading his mind. "I've seen better, but I've also seen worse."

Erik placed the mask on the bedside table.

_Fine. If it doesn't bother him, let him feast his eyes on my ugliness_.

"Perhaps you're right," Erik said softly.

They talked for a little bit. Ambrose asked Erik what he was doing in this part of town; did he live nearby? Was that a French accent he detected? Erik remained amiable, waiting for Rice to slip up and reveal some kind of ulterior motive for his kindness, but so far, he had not. Erik glanced around the room, then at himself. "I was carrying some documents. I don't know if my attackers got them…." He halted, debating as to how much to reveal at this time.

"You mean these?" Ambrose pointed to a packet of papers on the table. "Don't worry. I didn't look at them. I respect a man's privacy. Only way I'd have looked at them is if you were dead or dying, and I needed to notify your next of kin."

Erik had no way of knowing if Rice had or had not looked at them, but a quick look at the papers reassured him that none was missing. He thanked Ambrose, then took a quick look around the room, trying to figure where to keep them.

"If you'd like, I can give you an envelope. Then you can stick them in the table drawer. That way they'll be right next to you, where you can keep an eye on them."

"That would be…satisfactory. Thank you. I was also wondering about…" Erik looked down at himself, his nude body covered with only a sheet, "…my clothes."

Ambrose pointed to a small wardrobe. "I had them washed and patched as best I could. They're hanging in there for when you're ready."

A thought came to him. "Might I see my jacket? That is, if the thugs didn't take it." He saw Ambrose raise an eyebrow. "I was carrying something."

Ambrose got up and went over to the wardrobe. "They had it off you, but dropped it when they heard me holler." He handed the article of clothing to Erik.

Painful though it was, Erik managed to prop himself on one elbow. He checked the small inside pocket he had sewn shut. It was still secured, a quick pat telling him that Christine's ring was safe and snug inside. Relieved to have lost only the cash he had been carrying on him, and accepting that he would be in no condition to move for a few days, Erik accepted the man's hospitality. Putting on his most gracious manners, he explained how he had arrived, gotten lost, and fell for the girl's trick to lure him away from the main street. "I'm ashamed of myself for falling for such an old trick," he said, looking chagrined.

Ambrose chuckled sympathetically. "You're not the first. Those roughs usually don't stray over this way, but some of the young ones have been gettin' a little bolder than usual. This is a relatively poor neighborhood, but a good one. With good people."

"I shall have to take your word for that," Erik said skeptically. "What is this place?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. "Your house?"

"My house…and my life's work. You're welcome to stay here until you're feeling better. It's not the Palace, but at least it's clean and you'll have a roof over your head and food in your stomach. I can send word to the Palace that you're staying somewhere else and have your belongings sent here. After all, you shouldn't have to pay for a room when you're not there. "

"I am at your mercy," Erik said with a little chuckle, making his overly dramatic statement seem funny. He took a deep breath and rested his head back on the pillow, his left temple beginning to throb. The interview had tired him more than he had anticipated.

"Get some rest," Ambrose suggested, also noticing his guest's fatigue. "Later, when you wake up, I'll heat you up some soup. I might even find some crackers in the kitchen."

"One thing before you go. You said this isn't only your house, but your life's work. What did you mean by that?"

"This room is part of my infirmary. This is where I help my boys, the ones who came back from the war maimed and scarred. Some carry scars that you can see, while others have scars inside." Ambrose pointed to his heart. "Some of them suffer from wasting diseases like consumption. Some suffered head injuries that left them with a normal appearance, but simple minds. And, of course, there are the amputees. As I said, I seen worse. Much worse."

-0-0-0-


	7. Adjustments

**Author's Note:** I really have to take a moment and thank you all for the lovely reviews you are leaving for my story. While some authors can boast reviews in the hundreds, many of which are quick little one-liners, I am blessed to have readers who leave beautifully written, in-depth reviews. Such responses to my story are very special to me, and I thank all of you very, very much for taking the time to post them.

Thank you, also, to those of you who wrote to me, saying that you are looking forward to our Phantom anthology book we hope to have published this summer. I've added some new information on the book to my profile. Please take a look, and if you have any other questions either about the Anthology or about The Write Stuff, please email or PM me. Thank you!!

* * *

The Way to Love  
**Chapter 7  
****Adjustments**

**_Spring 1882_**

The healing process took longer than Erik had originally anticipated, and in spite of his initial misgivings about remaining at the infirmary, he in fact found himself taking a degree of pleasure in his stay and looked forward to his daily talks with Ambrose. The man's thoughtfulness in sending to the Palace for his luggage was also much appreciated. He chuckled as he thought of the usual number of cumbersome trunks and other luggage the majority of first-class passengers brought with them.

_The fools,_ he thought to himself, then changed his mind. _No, not fools. Foolish perhaps. Inexperienced certainly. But they are merely people_.

Erik's thoughts turned back to his benefactor. If he had learned anything at all over the past several days, it was that Ambrose Rice loved talking about his work, and the older man's enthusiasm was contagious. By the end of the week, Erik was well enough to walk about, and Ambrose invited him on a tour of the building.

"I got the place dirt cheap," Ambrose said with more than a hint of boast to his words.

Erik looked around as the two of them headed down the main hallway, Wolf right behind them. "The place looks clean to me."

Ambrose laughed. "No, dirt cheap, as in, I got it for a song. Anyway, it was a warehouse before this, but the previous owner's business went belly-up."

"Belly-up?" Erik almost rolled his eyes. He was sure he would never understand the American's slang.

"You know – caput. Out of business."

"Oh."

"As you can see," Ambrose went on, "the main floor has been divided into smaller sections. Over there we have a kitchen, and next to it, a dining area where every afternoon we provide soup and bread for those who wouldn't get a warm meal any other way. There's also a ward with ten cots for folks who need medical attention, as well as a few private rooms such as the one you're using. We normally use those for more serious cases or for people with contagious diseases. Don't want to go spreading germs around. Oh, and then there are my living quarters. There's a second floor, too, but it's used primarily for storage."

"This is quite an impressive operation you have here," Erik said, and he meant it. "How do you manage?"

"Mostly through volunteers and donations. A couple of doctors drop in once or twice a week to check on the sick. We're lucky right now; there are no patients in the ward. Everybody seems to relatively be healthy."

The two men continued discussing the intricacies of running such a place, when Erik asked, "Why do you do this?" Throughout his life, Erik had had little exposure to altruistic people who helped others without expecting something in return. Seeing Ambrose in action was a new experience.

"Because it needs to be done."

-0-0-0-

Back in his room, Erik sat on the edge of his bed. Wolf had followed him and was lying on the floor by his feet. Lately, Erik had found himself actually talking to the dog. "Well, _Monsieur Loup_, what have you to say about all of this?"

Wolf cocked his head to one side as if pondering the question.

Erik looked around the room, an idea forming in his head. For the past several days, he had been trying to come up with a way to repay his host for all his kindnesses. The easiest thing would be to give Ambrose a monetary donation, but Erik wanted to do more than hand out cash. During their tour, he had noticed the slap-dash manner in which supplies were kept. Ambrose had also mentioned that he was poor with figures and ciphering, and that his books were in bad shape. Since he had no permanent residence at this time, Erik decided to present Ambrose Rice with a proposition.

"You…you're offering to stay on for a few weeks and help out?" Ambrose was bowled over by the offer, the old man's expression of intense gratitude bringing a smile to Erik's face.

"That's exactly what I mean to do. I can help you get those supplies upstairs sorted and inventoried, get your books straightened out, and when necessary, run errands. Along the way, I will become better acquainted with New York."

"That's an awful lot of work you're bitin' off. Not that I don't want or need the help, mind you; just want you to know what you're getting into."

Erik laughed; the first time Ambrose had ever seen him do so. "You think I'm not up to the task?"

A smirk played at the corners of Ambrose's mouth. "Wouldn't want you to get those delicate hands dirty."

Both men laughed this time, while Wolf looked on, wondering what was so funny.

-0-0-0-

Between sorting supplies and reviewing ledgers, Erik made several trips into town, memorizing streets and cable car routes. He found the Bank of New York and opened his account, and along the way found a reasonable tailor from whom he ordered several sets of new clothes, suits that would be more practical for everyday work, clothes that would allow him to blend in with the local populace. And wherever Erik went, Wolf would usually be found at his side.

One day, Erik approached Ambrose on the matter of the dog. "I don't wish you to think I am trying to lure your dog away from you."

"My dog?" Ambrose chuckled as he looked over at the animal lounging by the fireplace. "Nobody owns Wolf. He's his own master and chooses to go where he wants and with whom he wants, and it looks right now as though he's chosen you."

From that point on, the two of them – Erik and Wolf – were inseparable. They often took long walks together, and Erik was amused to see Wolf taking his role of protector very, very seriously. No roughs or hooligans ever bothered either one of them.

-0-0-0-

It was spring, and the weather was too pleasant for anyone to be indoors, Erik included. And so he put aside the ledgers and headed out the door, Wolf right behind. He walked down the street absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells of the city – horses clip-clopping on the cobblestone pavement, children laughing and singing as they played, produce vendors calling out their wares. One of the pleasant surprises Erik had discovered during one of his walks had been the little bookstore two blocks away. It was little more than a hole in the wall, but inside was a treasure trove of the written word. He visited the store often, and the clerk soon came to recognize a new regular customer. The wizened old man would smile whenever he saw Erik walk in, knowing he was going to have a good sale this day.

"Stay here," Erik instructed Wolf outside the store. Wolf whimpered indignantly, then obediently lay down next to the step.

Inside, Erik quietly walked among the shelves, browsing through the volumes. He stopped when he saw a name that appeared to be French – Henry David Thoreau. He leafed through the book and considered adding _Walden, or Life in the Woods_ to his purchases. He continued looking, and his finger trailed along the spines of the books, pausing at Edgar Allen Poe. He vaguely recalled hearing about _The Murders in the Rue Morgue, _a story about a man with ape-like characteristics who murdered a number of women. Curiosity got the better of him, and he added it to his purchases.

The clerk asked Erik if there was something in particular he was looking for, and he recalled Ambrose mentioning a poet who had worked as a nurse in the Union hospitals during the late civil war. His name was Walt Whitman. Erik asked if there were any books by the poet.

"I do indeed. Here, look these over." The clerk handed him a couple of books, including one titled _Leaves of Grass_. Erik opened the volume.

**"_A Noiseless Patient Spider"_**

_A noiseless patient spider,  
__I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,  
__Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,  
__It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,  
__Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them._

_And you, O my soul where you stand,  
__Surrounded, detatched, in measureless oceans of space,  
__Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,  
__Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,  
__Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul._

His breath caught. The poet's words had reached out and touched his soul. It was as if Whitman had known Erik. He picked up another volume. Opening the second book, he read on...

**"_Facing West from California's Shores"_**

_Facing west from California's shores,  
__Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,  
__I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity,  
__the land of migrations, look afar,  
__Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;  
__For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,  
__From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,  
__Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,  
__Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,  
__(But where is what I started for so long ago?  
__And why is it yet unfound?) _

A wave of homesickness washed over Erik. This poetry had struck a chord in him. It resonated with him, bringing up emotions he had pushed down, down deep inside until they stuck in his craw.

_Christine..._

He forced his eyes closed as tried to force away the ache in his heart. Regaining his composure, he took the volumes to the storekeeper, paid for them, and walked blindly towards his room at the infirmary. He was walking fast, his long stride covering ground quickly. Wolf, who had been waiting outside the door of the shop, trotted alongside him. When Erik stopped for traffic, the dog nuzzled his head underneath his fingertips.

It was the first time the animal had touched Erik since the beating. Even though the dog had taken to following Erik everywhere, Wolf had remained guarded, watching his new master intently, staying nearby but never coming close enough for a pat on the head – until now.

"You're lonely too, aren't you?" Erik said quietly, as he waited to cross a busy street. The dog's ears perked up at the sound of his master's voice, and he sat expectantly. "We make a fine pair," Erik chuckled softly as he scratched the dog behind the ear. "Two mutts, out on their own. That's what we are, right, boy?"

Wolf grinned in agreement and demanded another scratch behind the ears before they continued on their way.

-0-0-0-

The weeks passed quickly, and Erik found himself easily adjusting to this new lifestyle. Even though he was surrounded by a number of people, he found that, unexpectedly, this allowed him to retain a certain amount of privacy. It was the anonymity of the masses, and he recalled someone once telling him that the best place for anyone to hide was in a crowd.

"I suppose you have a job of some sort waiting for you," Ambrose said.

Erik looked up from the desk where he sat with the ledgers. Ambrose had not been joking when he said he knew little about accounting. The books were a mess, and not for the first time did Erik wonder how the other man had managed all this time on his own. He set his pencil aside and rubbed his temples, hoping to ward off the headache he felt forming.

"No, as a matter of fact, I don't."

Ambrose, hopeful, asked, "I don't suppose there's any chance…." He stopped, unsure of whether he should continue, but Erik encouraged him to go on. "Well, what I mean is, I was wondering if there's any chance you would be interested in staying on – permanently. I know this isn't what you're used to. The quality of your clothes, the fact that you had reservations at the Palace tell me that. But I think you'd do well here."

The offer took Erik by surprise. "Let me think on it," he said. Contemplating the older man's offer, his mind wandered back many years to the only other person who had ever made him feel appreciated and wanted – the Khanum.

-0-0-0-

_**Fifteen years earlier…**_

_Dressed in his customary black silk robes and mask, Erik walked the halls of the Palace of Flowers and stopped at the doors to the private chambers of the Mahd-e Olya, mother of Naser o-Din Shah Qajar. He spoke to the eunuchs who stood guard._

"_The Khanum is expecting me," he said._

"_Enter, Magician."_

_Inside sat the Khanum, a small woman, her face old and wise. She continued to observe the traditions of her people, dressing modestly, while her son, the Shah, eschewed them and embraced the ways of the West. Pulling her __jihab__ tightly about her head and neck, she acknowledged Erik's presence._

"_Greetings, Magician. What is it you wished to see me about?"_

_The court magician bowed respectfully, then raised his head and met her gaze, only his eyes and lower jaw visible beneath the mask he wore. "I regret to inform you that I must leave Teheran soon, Great Lady." _

_The old woman looked him in the face. "I understand. I have power, but I cannot protect you day and night. This pains me deeply, however. I had looked upon you as a son of my sunset years, but it appears that this was not meant to be."_

_Erik nodded thoughtfully. "Rahzoul is determined to destroy me. Even if you were to have him removed…" – he paused for emphasis, knowing the dowager understood his meaning – "…he has powerful allies who would avenge him."_

"_You understand court politics only too well, my son." The Khanum signaled to one of the eunuchs in her chamber. "Before you leave…," she said as the eunuch approached Erik and handed him a velvet bag before resuming his post. "To help you on your way." _

_Erik opened the bag and found it filled with a fortune's worth of jewels. "Y-your majesty…" he uttered, stunned at the magnanimous gesture._

"_Go then, and may Allah guide your steps. May you find the peace you have sought, a woman to love and hold you, and a home for your children." _

_He stared at her intently. "I fear that shall never be." Erik made his obeisance once more. "Goodbye, Great Lady."_

_The Khanum nodded, indicating that the interview is over, and Erik left the room… _

-0-0-0-

The next day, to Ambrose's great pleasure and surprise, Erik accepted the job.

* * *

Note: I was introduced to Walt Whitman through my Civil War studies. Up until that point, I knew little of the man or his works. When I read some of his letters from this period of his life, they literally brought tears to my eyes. This man saw the true face of war -- the suffering in the hospitals, the deaths of young men in the first blush of manhood, men who should have been living, loving, starting families. And then I started reading his poetry. I'm not big on reading most poetry, but Whitman's work reaches out and touches my soul. 


	8. The Dance

**Author's Note: **This chapter is a tad bit shorter than the previous, but it tells us a little more about this Erik's background. I was going to wait until Wednesday to post it, but decided that a mid-winter pick-me-up was in order. Thanks as always to all my readers and reviewers.

* * *

**The Way to Love  
****Chapter 8  
****The Dance**

Erik sat in his room, which doubled as his office. The room was small, about nine feet by twelve feet, and cramped quarters at best with furniture that was functional, not stylistic. There was a small wardrobe for his clothes, a roll-top desk for work, a bed little more than the size of a cot, a small table, and a coat tree. With all of them vying for space, it wasn't unusual for Erik to be bumping into things while maneuvering about the room. More than once, he cursed as he stumbled against the edge of the desk or wardrobe, and his shins bore the marks of honorable battle against the unmoving furniture.

Lately, he been considering whether or not to purchase his own house. He had thought first about renting an apartment, but an apartment would not be much better than what he already had. What he really wanted was a residence, a house that would include room for a personal office, a music room, a den – all the amenities he missed. Having gotten familiar with the nearby neighborhoods, Erik knew that there were a number of modest residential dwellings nearby, several of which were for sale.

He was still amazed at the acceptance he had received from the people at the infirmary, both the volunteer workers and the guests, as Ambrose called those who came in need of the services offered. What surprised him most, however, was how little attention was paid to his face. One day, he broached the subject with Ambrose.

The old man had nodded knowingly. "I told you I'd seen worse. You've had a chance to see some of the many people who come here. We had a terrible war in this country, one that ended not even twenty years ago. Many of these people have seen men maimed by war – husbands, fathers, brothers, friends. As far as they are concerned, you're simply another veteran – no more, no less."

That had been several weeks ago, and the idea of acceptance continued to bring a smile to Erik's face when he happened to look over at the calendar tacked to the wall. June 1882.

_Eight months_, he thought, the smile turning into a slight frown. _Has it been that long since I left Paris, since I last saw Christine?_

He had hoped that by this time, the ache inside his breast would have gone away or at least subsided, but this turned out not to be the case. Apparently, it was something he was going to have to learn to live with for the rest of his life. He picked up the newspaper he had been reading the previous night, having been surprised to read of Christine's exploits over here, across the ocean. La Daaé appeared to be doing quite well. Even the New York papers were singing the praises of the new toast of Paris, with some proposing that the diva be invited to their city and open the season when the new Metropolitan Opera House was completed.

"I can't escape her," he said to no one, "not even here." He looked at the article again and wondered why she was still going by the name Daaé. Surely, she and her vicomte were married by now. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and he tossed the paper aside.

"May I have a moment of your time?" It was Ambrose.

"Come in," invited Erik. "The door's unlocked."

Ambrose entered and took a seat on the edge of the bed, Erik occupying the only chair in the room. "I have a favor to ask. Could you run some medicines to an invalid ex-soldier? He lives over in the 200 block of East Broadway. I usually go there myself but I have an important meeting with a prospective patron, and I'm not sure how long this is going to last."

"Of course. I'd be happy to."

"Good. Now, here's the address and directions." Ambrose wrote them down and handed the paper to Erik. "His name is Joshua Lathrop. He got wounded at Gettysburg back in July of '63; lost part of his jaw and got his shoulder messed up pretty bad, too."

Erik folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. "His situation sounds serious."

Ambrose nodded. "It is. He and his wife get along as best they can, living on his pension and the little money she brings in doing odd jobs – laundry, sewing, things like that." He looked at his watch and got up to leave. "Don't know how we got along without you. I'd better get going. Don't want to keep a prospective donor waiting."

Erik glanced over at Wolf. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

-0-0-0-

Erik could have easily taken one of the trolleys to East Broadway, but preferred to walk. For a man who had once spent so much of his time living below ground, it seemed he could not get enough fresh air and sunshine. Others obviously had the same thought, and as he walked past Central Park, he found it filled with couples strolling its paths and children playing on the lawn.

It was a warm day, and Erik decided to stop and rest on one of the park benches under a shade tree. While there, he was drawn to the children playing with hoops and sticks, running, jumping, and generally enjoying themselves. As he watched them, his mind wandered. He never had a chance to play as a child, never knew the kind of freedom he was seeing on the lawn of Central Park today.

Even as an adult, games and contests were difficult for him, his few experiences having almost always ended on a sour note. He remembered Persia and Rahzoul, a man he once had looked upon as a friend and mentor. When Rahzoul broke the rules of the game, Erik had felt betrayed…

-0-0-0-

_Persia_

"_Come, Erik," said Rahzoul. "You've worked hard at the __raqs-e çûb__. It is time to show off your skills. Besides, the Khanum has requested it."_

_Erik laughed. "You mean, she has ordered it."_

_The older man grinned back at him. "Isn't that what I said?"_

_Erik, thinking about the potential implications of the event, became more serious. "Rahzoul, I want to thank you for all your help. Ever since I came to court, you have been a friend and mentor. I wish I could repay you in some way."_

"_You can," agreed Rahzoul, "by impressing the Khanum with the skills I have taught you."_

"_She will be there?" Erik asked, surprised. "I thought it was against your customs for her to be present at these events."_

"_She will be watching, but not seen." _

"_Will you be my sparring partner?" _

"_Perhaps," said Rahzoul smugly. "That is, if you make it past your first partner without getting your leg broken."_

-0-0-0-

_The arena was filled with the primal music of the dance, its rhythms pounded out on the __dohol__ while the __sornâ__, the long flute, wailed the melody. A large gathering of men, clad only in loincloths so as not to be hampered during the intricate moves involved, filed into the room carrying sticks and poles. All had prepared for many weeks for this event, which was not simply a dance, but also a display of skills and bravery. Every one of them was acutely aware of the fact that the Khanum would be watching, judging the participants according to their abilities as fighters as well as their grace in execution. The sport was dangerous, but great rewards awaited those who pleased the Khanum. _

_The signal to commence was given, and two men entered the circle that delineated the dance area. One was the attacker while the other was the defender. The rest awaited their turn, clapping in time to the music and cheering the competitors on. The competition had begun. _

_The dance was a form of stylized combat used in the past to train warriors. It was both aggressive and dangerous. The attacker wielded a short, thick stick and danced around the defender, who held a long, upright pole, taking his measure of his opponent. After circling the defender the defender several times, the attacker would strike suddenly with his stick, aiming for the defender's legs. It was the defender's job to ward off the blows. If the attacker missed, he would be out of the competition and the defender would take his place. If the defender were struck, then he would be replaced by one of the waiting men. It was not uncommon for some participants to end the day with broken legs or other serious injuries._

_Erik took a deep breath as he watched and awaited his turn. He knew that a great honor was being conferred upon him, a foreigner, today, by being allowed to perform for the Khanum. Long hours of practice had left his body lean and hard, and the moves would be performed instinctively, without thought. He shook his arms and legs, loosening up, not sure when he would be called upon. Then a hand tapped his shoulder and pointed to the arena. It was his turn to defend. _

_Erik took his place in the circle. The attacker feinted and parried, dazzling his audience with his footwork, his leaps and whirls. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not beat Erik and soon Erik was promoted to attacker. The Eastern music filled his body and spirit, and Erik became lost in the fluid motions of the dance. He felt free, his soul flying. Contestant after contestant challenged him. He bested them all until at last it was Rahzoul facing him in the ring. The thrill of the dance continued when it suddenly occurred to Erik that for Rahzoul, this was no longer game of skill; he was playing for keeps. Even the others in the room sensed this change as the attacks became more vicious. _

_Erik was confused. When he had first been recruited by the Khanum to be her eyes and ears at court, she had instructed Rahzoul, her senior and most trusted operative, to be his teacher. Rahzoul took Erik under his wing and a rapport grew between the two men. Rahzoul was everything Erik had always dreamt of being – urbane, courtly, chivalrous and clever. He was someone Erik could look up to, the older brother he had never had._

_Thanks to Rahzoul, Erik had begun to think that he might actually fit in with this culture, that he had found a home at last. He had come to enjoy the exercises, the food, the culture, the civilization. He respected their religious tenets, even if he did not share them. Rahzoul had provided Erik with a tutor, so that he could read and write Parsi, and performers so that Erik could learn the music. _

_In the past, the two of them had laughed as they tested each other's mettle. Today, Erik looked at his friend and saw fiery hatred in the other man's eyes, and this sudden change hurt. He had been holding back out of affection and respect Rahzoul. He believed that he could defeat Rahzoul at any time, but that would involve potentially injuring his friend, something Erik was not ready to do. So he did the next best thing – he allowed Rahzoul to win. _

_The competition came to an end. Rahzoul came over and congratulated Erik for his fine performance, but his words sounded hollow. As the men milled around in groups, discussing their performances, one of the Khanum's eunuchs comes over to Erik. _

"_Master Magician, the Lady requires your presence in her audience chamber after you have washed and refreshed."_

_Erik bowed politely. "Please tell the Great Lady that I hear and obey." _

_As he headed towards the exit, Erik looked back over his should and saw Rahzoul staring back at him, shocked at the hatred still burning in the other's eyes. Later, when Erik approached Rahzoul on the subject, the other man passed it off as nothing, explaining that he been carried away by the heat of the moment, but Erik suspected there was more to it. A crack in the façade of Rahzoul's professed friendship had been revealed. No more would Erik implicitly trust him. _

-0-0-0-

Children's laughter brought Erik back to his senses. He looked down at Wolf who was patiently sitting at his feet. "I believe we had best be on our way. No sense dwelling on the past."

-0-0-0-


	9. The Lathrops

**Author's Note: **May I take a moment for a little self-promotion? Just in time for Valentine's Day, TWS (the reading/writing board I belong to) is offering several Phantom-related items for sale through Zazzle -- including **Red Death** and **Angel of Music** mugs. The proceeds go towards the maintenance of the board. Check out my profile for details and links for online shopping. Now that I'm done hawking my wares, here's the next chapter. Enjoy your weekend "fix." HD

* * *

The Way to Love  
**Chapter 9  
****The Lathrops**

Erik forced himself to shake off the malaise that had come over him. He could not fathom why his thoughts kept going back to Persia. He looked around at the park, its verdant greenery and cool, blue ponds reminding him of the palaces in Teheran, his mind drifting back to memories of perfumed gardens and cool night breezes, of...

_No! That part of my life was over years ago._

He took a deep breath, trying to clear the pounding in his head. Damn these headaches; they were becoming more troublesome. He leaned back and shut his eyes, trying to block the flood of unwanted memories, wondering why every time he thought something good was about to happen to his life, the opposite came true. First Rahzoul, now Christine.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his left hand, to the bit of gold he now wore on his little finger. This was where he kept Christine's ring these days – on his person. He had given up trying to forget her, and instead placed the ring where he could see it every day. It was a reminder of his vow to be a better man – to control his temper, to be the kind of man with whom she might have chosen to be. He realized that he had, in all probability, squandered his last chance at that kind of happiness, but he was not about to roll over and play dead, either. He would rebuild his life here in New York City, and this ring would remain a reminder of this decision.

Voices of the children playing in the park caught his attention once again, distracting him from annoying thoughts. He looked out across the lawn, taking in the idyllic scene of families enjoying themselves. A woman called out a name, and a little boy broke away from the crowd. There was a huge smile on his face as he ran on chubby little legs to his mother. Arms outstretched, he called, "Mamma! Mamma!" as he ran to her. His mother laughed as she grabbed hold of him and lifted him into the air, showering her son with kisses. Erik watched reflectively, remembering how it felt to be held, wondering for the hundredth time what it would have been like to have a wife, perhaps even a child or two. A faint smile played across his lips as he remembered the Great Lady's gifts.

_I could have had this,_ he reminded himself. _I could have taken a wife in Persia. Many had been willing...oh so willing._

Yes, the women had been willing to overlook his hideous face for a night with the powerful court magician, the man rumored to have been the Khanum's favorite. That the rumor had been only that did not matter; it had served its purpose, and the Great Lady had indeed been wise and generous. She had allowed the rumor to circulate, knowing that it had increased Erik's prestige at court and thus gave him the additional leverage needed to perform his true work for her. And the lady had known how to reward a man for a job well done. His body ached with the memories of how it felt to have a woman lying beneath him, her softness and her sighs...and then he remembered how he yearned for Christine and knew that he would never be satisfied with anyone but her.

A tail brushed against Erik's leg, snapping him out of his reverie and forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand. He looked down and saw Wolf stretched out on the grass. The dog looked up at him and yawned.

"Come on, boy," Erik said as he picked up the package of medicines he was to take to the Lathrop house. "You're getting much too comfortable down there. We will walk now, yes?"

-0-0-0-

The streets were crowded; a condition Erik was learning was typical for New York. He easily mixed in with the throng. With his homburg pulled down slightly to one side, and the mask tinted to match his skin tone, no one noticed that half his face was covered. In this way, he could blend in and feel a part of humanity, if only in this distant fashion.

His route took him past a dry goods store and he stopped inside. He remembered that Ambrose was low on some of the supplies he liked to keep on hand at the infirmary – tablets of paper, pencils, magazines, dime novels. The clerk recommended the latest Nick Carter detective stories, saying that they were quite popular these days. He paid for the purchases, and thanked the clerk for his help and gave instructions for the packages to be delivered to the infirmary.

Next, he stopped at a fruit vendor. There, Erik arranged for several bushel baskets of apples to be sent to the infirmary. The fresh fruit was enjoyed by patients and staff alike, and the cook had promised Erik an apple pie all his own the next time she baked them.

At last, he made his way to the 200 block of East Broadway. He checked the paper in his pocket for the address Ambrose had given him – 281 E. Broadway – and found himself standing in front of a modest, two-and-a-half story Federal style row house. There was nothing terribly fancy about the brick building, with its brownstone lintels and sills, and pedimented dormers. The basement obviously served as a place of business, with the words _Jaffke and Sons, Shoemakers_ painted on the window. Erik walked up the seven steps that led to the doorway, instructing Wolf to wait outside.

"Sorry, boy, but I don't think it would be proper for me to bring you inside without a proper introduction."

The dog looked as if to shrug his shoulders, then took his place by the side of the steps, intently watching the pedestrians who walked by.

-0-0-0-

Erik knocked on the door.

"Yes?" It was a woman who answered, dressed in a neat if out-of-date dress, her auburn hair shot with gray. Erik noticed her emerald-green eyes, and thought that she must have been exquisitely gorgeous in her younger years. Even now, in spite of her careworn expression, she exuded grace and regal beauty.

"My name is Erik Duquesne. I am looking for the Lathrop residence. Ambrose Rice sent me."

The woman smiled at the mention of Ambrose's name, and for a moment, her face shed many years. "I'm Miranda Lathrop. Please, won't you come in?"

Erik followed her inside the house, noting that there had not been the least look of surprise at his masked face. Of course, there wouldn't be, he chided himself, recalling what Ambrose had told him about her husband.

_She's already seen something as bad...probably even worse._

Inside the house, Erik noticed that the furnishings were old but well cared for. It was a household that has seen better days and displayed an air of genteel poverty. There was something else in the air, too – the odor of sickroom. Erik recognized the smell immediately. He'd encountered it in the infirmary, and years earlier when he had studied medicines and potions under one of the court physicians at Teheran. It was stale, almost funereal, with an underlying medicinal odor. There was also an air of sadness.

"Thank you for bringing this, Mr. Duquesne," Miranda said. "We used the last of our supply yesterday, and my husband is having a bad day."

Erik handed the package to Miranda. She untied the string holding the brown paper wrapping in place and opened the small box, removing one of two vials of morphia sulphate.

"Will you be administering the injection?" Erik asked.

Miranda nodded. "I do this for Joshua all the time. If you will excuse me, I need to give this to him right away."

Erik noticed that her hands were trembling and suspected that she was exhausted. No doubt, her husband had had a bad night, too, and she had been at his side, caring for him throughout the long hours.

"May I help? I've cared for ailing and wounded before," Erik explained, "and am accustomed to the sick room." Miranda smiled wanly at him, absently-mindedly tucking back a lock of hair that had escaped from its pins. Erik could see the fatigue in her face, noticing how tired and vulnerable she looked at that moment. He fought back the urge to offer comforting words to her, knowing how trite they would sound.

"Let me go in and speak to my husband first. He's not accustomed to visitors." She handed the vial to Erik and went inside the bedroom, returning shortly. "Please, come in," she said as she held the door open.

Inside the bedroom, the curtains were drawn, leaving the room dark. Like the rest of the house, the furnishings in here were sparse and well used, with most of the room taken up by the bed. Vases of flowers were scattered about, partly to cheer, and partly to cover the odor of the sickroom. But no amount of flowers could completely cover the smell.

Miranda walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. She took her husband's hand and spoke to him. "Joshua, this is Mr. Duquesne. Ambrose sent him. He's brought your medicine." She turned to Erik. "Mr. Duquesne, this is my husband, Joshua Lathrop."

His eyes now accustomed to the dark, Erik saw what he had not noticed before – a man, very frail, very pale, laying on the bed, propped up with many pillows. Erik saw that Joshua must have once been very handsome, but illness and injury had taken their toll. Joshua's dark eyes were weary and sad, his cheeks – what could be seen of them – gaunt and sunken. His left arm, the one Erik had been told was crippled, rested uselessly at his side. But what struck Erik the most was the kerchief the invalid wore over the lower half of his face.

Erik remembered Ambrose telling of Joshua's terrible wound, of how a bullet had struck him in the face, taking away part of his lower jaw and tongue before striking him in the shoulder, shattering bones. The shoulder had healed, leaving the left the arm permanently disabled. The facial wound, however, had not. For almost twenty years, Joshua Lathrop had lived with chronic pain and a suppurating wound. Erik glanced over at the bedside table and saw an emesis basin discreetly covered with a towel. Next to that was a slate and chalk.

"He can speak," Miranda said, "but only with great difficulty. It is usually easier for my husband to write what he wants to say."

"Of course." Erik walked over to the invalid and held out his hand. "How do you do?" he said, realizing how absurd the common greeted sounded under the circumstances. Joshua accepted the proffered hand, and Erik was surprised at how firm a grip he had. Joshua made a few strangled sounds. Erik could not be sure what the other man was saying, but his wife interpreted easily.

"He says it's a pleasure to meet you."

Erik smiled at Joshua, and even though he could not see the lower half of his face, could tell by the glimmer in his eyes that Joshua was smiling back.

"Mr. Duquesne is going to administer your injection," Miranda explained as Erik prepared the hypodermic needle. "He has experience nursing the injured. Ambrose would not have sent him if he couldn't help out."

Erik glanced over at the two of them, caught the squeezing of hands and the loving looks that passed between them. Stepping back over to the bed, Erik rolled up the sleeve on Joshua's right arm and inserted the needle, pushing down on the plunger that released the drug into the stricken man's body.

"You should be feeling some relief quite soon," Erik said.

Joshua nodded slightly, then closed his eyes as he let his head sink into the pillows. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

Miranda adjusted the covers and bent over to kiss her husband's forehead. "Sleep well, my love," she whispered to him. Then to Erik she said, "Let's talk in the parlor."

-0-0-0-

Erik returned to the infirmary that afternoon, troubled by what he had seen. He could not stop thinking about the Lathrops. Joshua and Miranda should have been enjoying the best years of their lives. Their house should have been filled with children and maybe even grandchildren by now. Instead, Joshua was living a shell of a life, with his wife as his constant nurse.

During their conversation in the parlor, he had learned from Miranda that she and her husband were living on Joshua's pension of $8.00 a month. That meager amount was supplemented by whatever money she brought in by doing sewing at home. There were many times, however, when it was hardly enough to cover their daily living expenses. She told Erik that she used to work in a neighborhood store, but as her husband's condition deteriorated, she had to quit. Joshua needed nearly around-the-clock care these days.

Erik paced his room, mulling over different ideas. Something needed to be done. There was no way those two could go living as they were. Finally, a plan formulated in his mind, and he hunted down Ambrose, finding him sitting in his office, inspecting invoices.

"I need to speak to you," Erik said, pulling up a chair. "Is there anything we can do for these people?"

"The Lathrops? What did you have in mind?" asked Ambrose, setting his papers aside.

"I'd like to have groceries delivered to their house on a weekly basis, as well as coal or wood or whatever they use for heating. Oh, and medical supplies."

Ambrose already knew the answer to his next question, but asked it anyway. "And where is the money going to come from?"

"I'll pay for it," said Erik.

"May I remind you that you're already helping subsidize the infirmary?"

"I've made some profitable investments," Erik explained, thinking of the large sums of money that were in his New York and Paris accounts. "I think I can afford this."

"This is quite laudable of you, Erik, but these are proud people. The idea of taking charity may be difficult for them to swallow."

"They know you, know your work. Might we tell them that you've found a supplier who will give them what they need at a discounted price?"

Ambrose rubbed his upper lip as he pondered the proposal. "They might believe that." His brow furled as he thought further on the matter. Then his expression brightened. "I think I know how we can pull this off. I have a few favors I can call in. Between your money, and my friends' good will, I think we can see to it that Joshua and Miranda get what they need. In fact, I'll call upon them tomorrow. Now, then, is there anything else?"

"Yes," said Erik. "Why did you send me there today?"

"I sent you there because I couldn't make it myself. I had that appointment, or have you forgotten?"

Erik's lips curled into a grin. "I suspect you had an ulterior motive, but if you wish to keep it to yourself, so be it."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said innocently.

"Then, it wasn't that you wanted me to see for myself that no matter how bad a person thinks his situation is, there's always somebody worse off?"

Ambrose chuckled. "If that's what you want to believe," he said with a shrug. "But where are you off to now?"

Erik rose from his chair. "I've an errand to run. Thank you for your help."

-0-0-0-

Now that he had decided to do something positive with his life, Erik was eager was eager to visit the merchants tomorrow and set everything into motion. In the meantime, there was something he could do this afternoon.

During his stay in Persia, he had picked up various remedies and cures from learned men. He remembered the recipes for some herbal sleeping draughts and thought that these might help Joshua be less dependent upon narcotics to get him through the night. Grabbing his coat, he walked down to the apothecary shop down the street and picked up valerian, belladonna, chamomile, St. John's wort, and other ingredients he needed.

When he returned to his room, he prepared the mixture. Tomorrow, he would call upon the Lathrops once again.

* * *

**  
Historical Note:** As some of you who have read my other stories know, I am an avid amature historian. One period of history I have have studied a lot is the American Civil War, and have for a number of years been very active with other Civil War "buffs" in my community, including being president of our local Civil War Roundtable. 

And so it shouldn't come as much of a surprise to learn that the character of Joshua Lathrop was inspired by a real person by that name, a hometown boy whose grave I've visited on a number of occasions. Joshua was a private in the 14th Ohio Volunteer Infantry and was severely wounded at Jonesboro, Georgia, today a suburb of Atlanta. There really was a Miranda, too, but she was his mother, not his wife. The real Joshua never married. There were two other brothers who served in the war as well -- Walter and Elisha. This family, like many others during the war, suffered through a number of tragedies.

As for the real Joshua's wound? It was similar to what I've written, but I've downplayed its severity.

HDK


	10. Friendships

**Author's Note: **I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this next chapter, but you've been such wonderful readers, you deserve it now. Thanks as always for the wonderful reviews!

* * *

**  
The Way to Love  
****Chapter 10  
****Friendships**

Erik got up and stretched, his muscles cramped from sitting hunched over his cluttered desk, the past several hours spent reviewing the infirmary's accounts and correspondence. He turned towards the window, and saw the blue sky beckoning. "No sense getting a headache from all this," he said to himself as he set aside the books and ledgers. A quick look at his pocket watch told him it was time to take his afternoon constitutional.

He was halfway down the block when he realized he was being followed. He turned around, not exactly surprised to find the dog was right behind him. Erik stopped, and Wolf stopped, too, sitting and waiting patiently.

"No," Erik said sternly. Wolf cocked his head. "Shoo! Go home!" he said, gesturing for emphasis. He turned and started to walk briskly away, when the telltale clicking of paws on pavement alerted him that the dog had not obeyed. He stopped and turned to face the animal, who was unfazed by Erik's attempts at command. "This can't go on. You cannot follow me everywhere."

Wolf grinned back in that way which only a dog – or a wolf – could grin.

"I'm sorry, boy, but this must stop."

Wolf responded by wagging his tail faster.

Exasperated, Erik returned to the infirmary and sought out Ambrose for help. Wolf, with tail held high, trotted happily behind him.

"I've tried over and over to discourage him" Erik explained, "but he persists in following me! Would you mind tying him up for a while, at least until I am around the corner?"

Ambrose chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "What good will that do? He'll simply follow your scent. He is half wild, you know; helluva of a good tracker."

"So I've learned," Erik said with a sigh. "I've taken to sneaking out when he's not around, trying different routes through the city, but he always manages to find me."

"Can't pull the wool over Wolf's eyes. Face the facts, man. He likes you. Can't imagine why, but I suspect it might have something to do with you slipping him half your dinner each night." Ambrose peered accusingly at him over his reading glasses. "I'll bet you didn't think I noticed that, did you?" 1

"I'm not trying to steal your dog!" said Erik indignantly.

Ambrose scoffed at the idea. "Wolf has no master. He knows what he wants, and right now, he wants to be with you. Why is that so hard for you to accept? He likes you, wants to go where you go and be by your side. Besides, he probably figures you still need looking after. Wouldn't want you to fall afoul of those toughs again."

"Please," Erik said, rolling his eyes, "don't remind me." He looked down at Wolf then back at Ambrose. He knew when he was beaten. "Oh, very well. Come along, boy – but behave yourself."

Wolf padded behind Erik, having known all along that he'd get his way.

-0-0-0-

"Is it all right if I give Wolf some scraps from dinner?" Miranda asked.

"Yes. I'm sure he'll appreciate it," replied Erik. A troubling thought crossed his mind. "Will he be all right back there? What if he noses around the chicken coop?"

Miranda laughed, and hearing it reminded Erik of the sound of bells floating on the summer breeze.

"Oh, stop fussing," she said as she scratched Wolf behind the ears. "He's just an overgrown puppy, aren't you, boy?"

Erik pretended to grimace and looked across the room at Joshua, who was laughing silently behind his kerchief. "Your wife seems quite taken with him," he said, and Joshua nodded in agreement. He took a seat in the parlor, across from his host.

Joshua indicated the newspaper in his lap and looked at Erik with gratitude. He struggled to say "thank you" but his garbled words were unintelligible. The Lathrops did not have the pennies to spare for luxuries such as newspapers these days, and Joshua had missed reading them.

When Erik had leaned this, he made sure that when he came to visit, his route would take him past one of the numerous newspaper vendors that dotted the streets. As he always carried a few extra coins in his pocket, he would buy a paper, quickly scan through it, and then use this as an excuse to pass the paper along to Joshua, explaining that he'd read it along the way.

Erik had also learned that Joshua was extremely gifted with his hands. The ex-soldier loved making and repairing watches, children's toys, and automatons. When asked where he learned to craft such intricate mechanisms, Joshua wrote that his father had been a watchmaker, and that as a boy, he had spent many an hour at his father's side, learning the craft.

So Erik began visiting the local pawnshops along his route, purchasing broken watches and other mechanical devices, and bringing them to Joshua. Joshua would then repair them, and Erik would take the reconditioned items to a consignment shop, where the money earned from selling them would be forwarded to Joshua and Miranda.

And then there was the music. On one visit to a pawnshop, Erik saw a violin and case in the window. He inquired about the instrument. The price he was quoted was a very reasonable and he bought the instrument on the spot. It needed some minor repairs, but nothing Erik could not take care of himself. Now, in addition to newspapers, he would often bring the refurbished violin when he visited and play for the couple.

Wolf had also made himself welcome, sensing as animals do when someone was in need of comforting. As long as the weather was pleasant, Wolf was allowed to spend the afternoon in the little courtyard behind the house, where he would lie in the sun and lazily eye the chickens as they clucked and scratched. When the weather was bad, Wolf would be allowed to come inside, where he amazed Erik by being on his best behavior.

"I have a favor to ask of you, sir," Miranda said to Erik with mock formality as she brought glasses of lemonade into the parlor for the three of them, including a glass straw for Joshua so that he could discreetly drink his beverage without removing his kerchief. "You have become such a dear friend to us in just these few short weeks, it seems silly to continue being so formal. From now on, you must address me as Miranda, and my husband as Joshua, and, unless you object, we shall call you Erik."

Erik took a sip of lemonade to hide his embarrassment at such open approval. "Thank you…Miranda."

Later, Erik helped Miranda carry the empty glasses and pitcher to the kitchen. She had insisted that there was no need for him to do this, but he sensed that she wanted to speak to him privately. It turned out that his senses were correct.

"I would like to thank you again for all you've done for us, Erik. And please, don't deny it. I know what Ambrose told us about the groceries, but I also know the truth – that you're the one responsible for these good deeds."

Erik tried to shrug it off as nothing, but Miranda would not hear it.

"There has been a marked improvement in my husband's condition. I know he will never completely recover, that he will always be an invalid, and so I cherish every small victory."

"You make it sound as though I've done something extraordinary," Erik said, humbled by her generous words.

"But you have. You see, I came to accept that, long ago, I would not have a 'normal' marriage," she explained. "The war took that away from both of us, but I do not complain. I love Joshua; I always have and always will. That is why I am grateful for all you've done – the fresh fruit and meat delivered each week, the medicines, simple things like bringing my husband a newspaper to read. You may consider your gifts small and trivial, but I do not. Your coming to our house that first day was a blessing – for both of us."

"For _all_ of us," Erik added softly, choked with emotion.

"I think perhaps we should rejoin Joshua in the parlor. He has something he would like to show you."

The three of them sat in the small parlor, a shoebox filled with pictures sitting in front of them. Erik was looking at one of them, a portrait of Joshua at age twenty – a young, bright-eyed soldier eager to go defend his country. He was a handsome young man, standing tall and erect. "You were a zouave?" he asked, noting the bright, colorful uniform with its baggy trousers, vest, and fez. "We have such units in the French army."

Joshua nodded and wrote, _We were called the Fire Zouaves, because many of us were volunteer firemen in those days._

Miranda beamed proudly. "I remember the day the picture was taken. Joshua had enlisted in the Second New York Fire Zouaves. He was the handsomest man in the regiment, if I say so myself."

_What I used to look like,_ Joshua wrote. His eyes misted as he looked off in the distance at something only he could see. Composing himself, he picked up his slate again and wrote, _I would like to visit Gettysburg one more time before I die._

Erik noticed the tears in the other man's eyes. This was the first time he had seen such emotion from Joshua, who normally bore his burden with stoic resignation. "Have you seen a surgeon?" he asked, then immediately regretted it. "What I mean is, doctors are always developing new procedures. Perhaps…" He stopped, not wanting to upset his host any further, yet wishing he could do more for the invalid veteran.

_Not recently_, Joshua wrote. _Can't help…can't afford._

An awkward moment passed. Miranda, knowing how painful the topic was for her husband, changed it to something more pleasing. "Have you found a house yet, Erik? You mentioned previously that you were in the market for one."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I have," he replied, picking up Miranda's cue. "It's not too far from the infirmary in a quiet, residential neighborhood. The real estate agent referred to it as a 'suburban dream house,' whatever that is supposed to mean."

_Helps raise the price,_ Joshua wrote, the hint of a grin showing behind his mask.

Miranda stifled a giggle. "I suspect our friend here would not permit any agent to take advantage of him." She turned to Erik. "Is it furnished?"

Erik shook his head. "No, and that is where I might need some help."

"Ah…" Miranda said dreamily. "What you need is a woman's touch." She looked over at Joshua, who nodded back at her.

Taking his chalk and slate in hand, Joshua suggested that perhaps Miranda could help Erik with selecting draperies, fabrics for upholstery, and other furnishings. _My wife has very good taste,_ he wrote. _The excursion would do you good_, he added, smiling as he handed her the slate to read.

"But what about you?" Miranda asked, torn between the pleasure of helping Erik get his house set up and concern about leaving her husband alone.

_Caroline, _Joshua wrote.

"Who?" Erik asked, puzzled.

"Our landlord's daughter. She often helps out by looking in on Joshua when I have errands to run."

The problem solved, Erik was relieved that he would have an expert's advice, surprised when he found himself wishing that the expert helping could have been Christine.

-0-0-0-

"Quite a nice place you've got yourself," Ambrose said admiringly as Erik took him on a grand tour of his new home. He had been impressed from the moment they walked up the path to the front door of the two-and-a-half story Queen Anne-style house.

"I preferred this Shingle Style to some of the others that were available," explained Erik. "It conveys a sense of the house as continuous volume."

"If you say so," said Ambrose, not the least bit interested in an architecture lesson.

Erik, oblivious to the older man's eye-rolling, was caught up in extolling the virtues of the style. "It creates the effect of the building as enveloping space, rather than it being a great mass. And the flat shingled surfaces with their emphasis on horizontal continuity, as brought out by the wrap-around porches and balconies, enhance the visual tautness."

"If you say so. Me? I just like the way it looks."

They walked up the stone platform and through the main entrance. Inside, they were greeted by a beehive of activity as painters, plasterers, and wall paperers scurried around, putting the finishing touches on the interior. Erik and Ambrose carefully made their way past buckets of paint and walked on drop cloths that protected the new parquet flooring. "Not too big, but big enough for when you want to entertain."

"I won't be entertaining," Erik said with finality, then relented. "Not anytime soon, that is. Mrs. Lathrop has been a great help in choosing the colors, patterns and fabrics."

"It's always fun to spend someone else's money," Ambrose said with a wink and a grin. "Yessirree, always more fun."

Even Erik found himself laughing at Ambrose's observation. "I never knew there was so much to moving into a house."

"Never had one of your own?"

"I had one but it was…quite small compared to this. More like an apartment." They continued their tour and wandered into what would eventually be the music room.

"I like this," said Ambrose. "A turret room. Almost makes you feel like you're in a castle, doesn't it?"

Erik agreed. "It does have a special ambience. And look up at the ceiling. Mrs. Lathrop suggested the sky-blue background with the gold stars. I shall invite her and her husband here for an evening of music once the house is finished. I'd like them to see this room by candlelight." His voice trailed off as he glanced down at the gold ring he wore and imagined Christine in the room, the soft candle glow reflecting off her face, her golden hair...

"Who's going to provide the music?" Ambrose asked, intruding upon Erik's thoughts.

"I shall."

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. "You are full of surprises, you know that? What do you do? Sing? Play the banjo?"

Erik laughed softly at the idea of strumming a banjo. "No, I shall play the piano. I have one ordered from Mr. Steinway's store. It will be delivered in two weeks, along with the rest of the furniture."

"Running a house this size, even for just one person, is going to require at least a small staff. Unless, of course, you're planning on doing all the cooking and cleaning by yourself."

Erik was perplexed. How could he explain that he had overlooked something as basic as domestic help? "Any suggestions?"

"First thing you need is a good housekeeper, and I know just the woman. She's done this kind of work before. She's a widow, hard working, dependable. If you'd like, I'll arrange for you to interview her."

"I would appreciate that."

"Oh, by the way, will Wolf have his own room?"

Images of the dog lolling on the new sofa sent a chill down Erik's spine. "Wolf? In here?"

"He's adopted you. What did you think, that because you're moving out of the infirmary, he'll stay put?"

Erik looked towards the back yard. "I'll have a house built for him – out there."

-0-0-0-

Erik sat in the unfinished parlor, across from Mrs. Muriel Flynn, a stocky, middle-aged woman appropriately attired in a dark-colored, no-nonsense dress. Each time he looked at her, Erik could not rid himself of the image of a discipline-minded headmistress, and wondered if she was really as stern as she looked.

"I understand you have past experience in managing a house of this size," he said, trying to find the right note on which to begin the interview. He had never conducted one before and would have been just as happy to have taken Ambrose's word and hired the woman sight unseen, but Ambrose had insisted, telling him that it would not be proper.

"Yes, sir, I have," Mrs. Flynn replied, the Gaelic lilt of her voice softening the earlier harsh image. "These are my letters of recommendation from my previous employers." She handed two envelopes to Erik. "The only reason I did not remain with either family is that both decided to move west, and I preferred to remain in New York City."

"I see," said Erik noncommittally, pretending to thoroughly read them. "Very well. You're hired," he said, having made up his mind before the interview ever started. "I shall leave the hiring of the rest of the staff up to you. Hire as many as you feel will be necessary for the smooth running of the household. I will pay an equitable wage as I have no wish for disgruntled employees under my roof."

"But, what about my own wages, sir? We haven't—"

"Yes. Of course. I see here," he said, quickly glancing back down at the papers, "that your last wage was considerably less than what I am prepared to offer you. Your duties and responsibilities have increased, since you will be managing the staff." He wrote down a figure down for her, and handed her the slip of paper, showing her the salary he had in mind. He forced himself not to smirk when he saw the woman's jaw drop in amazement. "Is that sufficient?" he asked, deadpanned.

"Eminently so, sir," she replied with a quiver in her voice.

"Very good. Now that we have that settled, are there any other questions?"

"Only one. When do I start?"

-0-0-0-


	11. The Nightmare

**The Way to Love  
****Chapter 11  
****The Nightmare**

_Summer - 1882_

She walked quickly, glancing over her shoulder from time to time to make sure he was following. When she reached the door to her suite, she paused and bit her lower lip enticingly. "Erik," she whispered, "come inside."

He hesitated. "Are you sure? I didn't think you ever wanted to see me again."

She took his hand and pulled him across the threshold. "I've grown up since last we met. I'm not the foolish girl you left behind in Paris."

He watched as she carelessly tossed her wrap aside and smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. His eyes lingered on her feminine curves as she stood before the open window, silhouetted by the moonlight pouring through. A gentle breeze cooled his forehead, and he realized that he was burning…burning with the need to hold her in his arms. Two quick steps and he was beside her, one hand grazing the small of her back, the other caressing her cheek.

"How I've missed you," he murmured. "You're more beautiful than ever, Christine."

She turned to him, her eyes closed as she melted at his touch. She yielded her lips to him, inviting him to taste her as she gently removed his mask so that she could kiss him fully. She let the mask slide through her fingers, her eyelashes fluttering as she pulled him close. And then her eyes grew wide with terror, the stillness of the night shattered by her piercing scream.

"Horror! Horror! _Horror!_" she cried, stumbling as she backed away from him. She fell to the floor in a heap, cringing at the sight of him.

"Chris—" he gurgled, his words garbled and confused. He stumbled to the mirror, holding his head in his hands, and steeled himself for what he knew he would see – a corpse-like visage, his corrupt flesh a mangled mess that hung on protruding bones. But when he dropped his hands, a terrible moan escaped him as he saw what made her scream.

His lower jaw was missing, torn away by some unknown force. Vacant, dead eyes set above a hideous gaping maw stared back at him. "No," he cried, over and over again as he raked his nails down his ravaged face, the blood running in warm, wet rivulets, pooling around his throat, and he choked…choked…

…choked on his own scream as he bolted upright. He looked around, gulping down air as he tried to slow the pounding of his heart. He was in his own bed, in his own home, safe and sound. Wolf was on the floor next to his bed. The dog jumped up, cocked his head, and came over to lick Erik's cheeks reassuringly.

He flung off the bedcovers and lurched over to the washstand, pouring cold water from the pitcher over his hands and splashing it on his face. To his relief, the water ran clear in the washbasin, and he dabbed the moisture away with a fresh towel. Erik shook his head. He had dreamt of Christine before, many times, but never like this. He returned to his bed, and listened to Wolf's deep breathing.

"Only a dream," he said to himself, as Wolf watched him settle down. "Only a damned dream."

When morning came, he went to Grand Central Terminal to arrange for tickets to Gettysburg as Joshua had asked. He stopped at a mercantile along the way and picked out some traveling clothes for Joshua and his wife, and when he touched the blue satin ribbon on the bonnet, he thought how lucky was Joshua, to have a loving wife. A woman who would not scream at the sight of him…

And he realized how lucky he was, as he moved freely through the streets of New York with barely anyone giving him a second glance.

-0-0-0-

Erik looked out the train window, the rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels on the track creating a tranquilizing sound. When Joshua and Miranda had invited him to join them on the trip to Gettysburg, Erik had been deeply touched. True friendship was something new, and he was honored that they had thought enough of him to want to accompany them.

Like many others, he had heard of the great and terrible battle that had raged near the small village in Pennsylvania nearly twenty years ago. He knew that this was where Joshua had received his wound, and that for the Lathrops, this was a pilgrimage of sorts, a chance to put to rest old ghosts, something with which he, Erik, had experience. At first, he had declined the invitation, saying that he did not wish to intrude on what the couple would surely wish to be a private time. But neither Joshua nor Miranda would take "no" for an answer. Erik was their benefactor and, more importantly, their friend; they would be grateful to have him go along with them. And so Erik arranged for Wolf to stay back with Ambrose at the infirmary for a few days. His bag packed, he'd picked up Joshua and Miranda that morning, and the three of them headed for the train station and Gettysburg.

-0-0-0-

"It was good of you to think of a private compartment," Miranda said to Erik as she got up and stretched. "It's much nicer than sitting in the regular coach with everyone crowded so close together. However, if you gentlemen don't mind, I think I'll stretch my legs in the corridor for a few minutes."

Erik, who was sitting closest to the door, rose and opened it for her. When he resumed his seat, Joshua pointed to the book Erik had brought with him, indicating that he would like to hear his traveling companion read something.

"It's a volume of Mr. Whitman's poems," Erik said. "Which would you like to hear?" He handed the book to Joshua, who pointed to "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd."

_When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd  
__And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,  
__I mourn'd and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.  
__O powerful western fallen star!  
__O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!  
__O great star disappear'd—O the black murk that hides the star!  
__O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!  
__O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul._

Erik paused. "This is about your President Lincoln, is it not?"

Joshua nodded.

"You admired him?"

Again, Joshua nodded. He pulled out the tablet of paper he'd brought with him and wrote, _He was the noblest of men. _

Erik saw the tired expression on Joshua's face and was worried that the poem, with its symbolic references to the assassination of the late president, was too depressing. "Perhaps I should find something more uplifting to read," Erik said. "This appears to upset you."

Joshua attempted to smile. _No, this suits my mood._

Erik finished the poem and there was a moment of silence between the two men. Joshua, who had noticed the ring Erik always wore, ventured to ask about it. _Have you never married?_

"No," Erik answered with a tinge of embarrassment, having always felt awkward when speaking of himself. "I'm afraid I am not the marrying kind."

Joshua cocked an eyebrow. _I'm surprised. You have so many good qualities to offer._

"I was in love once," Erik admitted hesitantly. "Still am, if truth be told. But I drove her away. I didn't intend to, but I did it all the same. She sings with the Paris Opera. I was her voice teacher."

_So you sing as well as play? You are a man of many talents._

"Yes, I play the piano and violin…and on occasion, sing," he said, not wishing to elaborate, but then he paused as his thoughts flew to the rooftop of the opera house. "Her name is Christine," he finally said. "When I knew her, she was young and innocent, and against my better judgment, I found myself falling in love with her. In my foolishness, I assumed she loved me in return. It turns out that I…frightened her."

Joshua frowned. _Your face?_

"My face. My temper. My demanding nature. I drove her into another man's arms."

_You must have changed since then. I do not see these things in you._

"I have worked hard to control it. My temper, that is." Erik looked up and saw tears in the other man's eyes, and in that moment, each man realized that the other envied him something.

_I sometimes wish I had your face,_ Joshua finally wrote.

The words stunned Erik. "I had never considered that possibility," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. _How often has he worried about losing Miranda, and how sad is it that he envies me?_ But Erik knew it was true, that if he could, Joshua would happily take a proper, if ugly, face such as Erik's, one with an undamaged jaw and a tongue that allowed him to speak. "You do know that she loves you," he said. "I would give anything if Christine felt that way about me."

The door opened, breaking the melancholy mood that had settled over the room. Miranda frowned as she saw two forlorn faces looking up at her. "Is there something wrong? Have the two of you quarreled or something?"

Erik forced himself to smile. "Everything is fine. We were just reminiscing."

Joshua gazed at Miranda and held out his hand to her, inviting her to sit next to him. She took her place next to him and he picked up his tablet_. I love you_, he wrote.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "I love you, too, Joshua Lathrop."

-0-0-0-

It took two days to make the two hundred-plus mile trip from New York City to Gettysburg. Although Joshua's health had greatly improved over the past months, neither Miranda nor Erik had wanted to see him overly taxed. As it was, their route included several transfer points. On the first day, they took one line from the Grand Central Depot in New York to Philadelphia, and then transferred over to another line that took them into Harrisburg. At each transfer point, luggage had to be unloaded from one train and loaded onto the next. There were also waits in the train schedules, and so the three of them had decided to make Harrisburg their halfway point. They spent the night in the state capital, which allowed everyone to be well rested for the second leg of the trip. The next morning, they took the Gettysburg & Harrisburg Railroad and arrived at the downtown train station in the village later that afternoon.

Erik was surprised to see that for a small place, Gettysburg was more than capable of taking care of visitors. Apparently, they were not the only ones who came to visit the battlefield. The cab driver who took them to their hotel explained that each year, veterans, their families, and others who were curious came to their small community. Reunions were becoming popular, as was the erecting of monuments and commemorations by various veterans' organizations. A veritable tourist industry had sprung up, providing accommodations, livery services, restaurants, and guides. Erik asked which hotel the cab driver would recommend.

"The City Hotel," he said. "Right by the Diamond."

"What's 'the diamond'?" Miranda asked.

"Some folks would call it the town square, but it's not truly square so we call it the Diamond," their cabbie explained.

They planned on spending several days in Gettysburg, and Erik took care of checking them into their hotel, securing adjacent rooms. The rest of the afternoon was spent in quiet repose. Erik wanted their stay to be a trouble-free as possible, and while Miranda and Joshua relaxed in their room, he went to speak to the hotel clerk, who arranged for a carriage and guide to pick them up the next morning for a tour around the battlefield.

* * *

Author's Note: Here's where I get to give you a little history lesson. My characters arrive at Gettysburg via the Gettysburg & Harrisburg RR, an actual line but one that was not completed until 1884, two years after this story. I just hurried things up a bit. As for the Gettysburg battlefield itself? 

After the battle, the Army of the Potomac and the citizens of Gettysburg were left with appalling burdens. The battlefield was strewn with over 7,000 dead men and the houses, farms, churches, and public buildings were struggling to deal with 30,000 wounded men. The stench from the dead soldiers and from the thousands of animal carcasses was overwhelming. To the east of town, a massive tent city was erected to attempt medical care for the soldiers, which was named Camp Letterman after Jonathan Letterman, chief surgeon of the Army of the Potomac. Contracts were let with entrepreneurs to bury men and animals and the majority were buried near where they fell.

Two individuals immediately began to work to help the town recover and to preserve the memory of those who had fallen: David Wills and David McConaughy, both attorneys living in Gettysburg. A week after the battle, Pennsylvania Governor Andrew Curtin visited Gettysburg and expressed the state's interest in finding its veterans and giving them a proper burial. Wills immediately arranged for the purchase of 17 acres next to the Evergreen Cemetery, but the priority of burying Pennsylvania veterans soon changed to honoring all of the Union dead.

McConaughy was responsible for purchasing 600 acres of privately held land to preserve as a monument. His first priorities for preservation were Culp's Hill, East Cemetery Hill, and Little Round Top. On April 30, 1864, the Gettysburg Battlefield Memorial Association was formed to mark "the great deeds of valor . . . and the signal events which render these battlegrounds illustrious," and it began adding to McConaughy's holdings. In 1880, the Grand Army of the Republic took control of the Memorial Association and its lands.

On November 19, 1863, the Soldiers' National Cemetery was dedicated in a ceremony highlighted by Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. The night before, Lincoln slept in Wills's house on the main square in Gettysburg, which is now a landmark administered by the National Park Service. The cemetery was completed in March of 1864 with the last of 3,512 Union dead reburied. It became a National Cemetery on May 1, 1872, when control was transferred to the U.S. War Department.

The removal of Confederate dead from the field burial plots was not undertaken until seven years after the battle. From 1870 to 1873, upon the initiative of the Ladies Memorial Associations of Richmond, Raleigh, Savannah, and Charleston, 3,320 bodies were disinterred and sent to cemeteries in those cities for reburial, 2,935 being interred in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond. Seventy-three bodies were reburied in home cemeteries.

Since the battle, Gettysburg has been a prominent attraction for visitors. Immediately after the battle, thousands of relatives arrived in search of their dead and wounded. (This was possible only because Gettysburg was in Northern territory. No similar trips could be made by relatives to, say, Chancellorsville, Virginia.) After the war, due to its proximity to major eastern cities, Gettysburg was one of the most popular tourist destinations of all the battlefields. Commercial development followed this influx. Source: "Gettysburg Battlefield," Wikipedia.


	12. Gettysburg

**Author's Note: **Because chapter 11 was rather short, I'm posting chapter 12 along with it.

* * *

**  
The Way to Love  
****Chapter 12  
****Gettysburg**

The next morning, a guide driving a well-appointed surrey picked them up in front of the hotel. Knowing they would be out all day, Miranda made arrangements at breakfast to have a picnic basket packed, one that included specially prepared foods that Joshua could eat, to take along with them. The guide, a craggy-faced man with a friendly smile, introduced himself as Buster and assisted the trio into the surrey.

"Are either of you two gentlemen veterans?" he asked as he got everyone settled in.

"My friend, Mr. Joshua Lathrop, is," Erik said. "A facial wound received here at Gettysburg prevents him from being able to speak for himself. And this is his wife, Mrs. Lathrop. My name is Erik Duquesne."

"A pleasure to have you folks with me today," said Buster. "We're quite accustomed to visitors, especially veterans and those who had family who fought here. I was a lad at the time of the battle, but I remember the smoke having barely cleared the air when the first of the curious came flocking to our little village. These days, we've got veterans from both sides coming here, along with their families. A lot of monuments are beginning to be placed on the battlefield by different regimental organizations. The first ones were mostly over near the National Cemetery, where President Lincoln gave his address. Now, if there's something in particular you'd like to see, tell me what it is. I was born and raised here, and I've been guiding people around the battlefield for fifteen years now. I know this area like the back of my hand."

"We're mainly interested in the second day of the battle, over by the Peach Orchard," said Miranda. "But if it's possible, we'd like to at least see the most important landmarks from all three days."

"It certainly is possible, ma'am. It's all rather sprawled out. The armies didn't stay put in one place. What I can do is drive you around and show you the main points of interest. The area around the Peach Orchard is a pretty place for a picnic. If you'd like, I'll work it out so that we stop there for lunch. That way, you can spend some extra time there. Now then, if you're all comfortably situated, we'll get started."

Erik smiled to himself, bemused by Buster's prologue and wondering what the day was going to be like.

-0-0-0-

It was early afternoon when they pulled up in front of a placard that said "The Peach Orchard."

"Would you like to have lunch here?" Miranda asked. The men said yes, and Buster got out a blanket and spread it out on the grass. "You will be joining us, won't you?" Miranda asked their guide.

"Why, thank you, ma'am. That's very considerate of you."

"The grounds look well-maintained," Miranda said, looking at the landscape. "Who is in charge of all of this?"

"Originally, it was the Gettysburg Battlefield Memorial Association, but these days the G.A.R. oversees maintenance and upkeep," said Buster.

"You've mentioned this G.A.R. several times," said Erik. "I am new to your country. What exactly is it?"

Joshua gestured to the medal he was wearing on his jacket and Miranda explained, "It stands for Grand Army of the Republic. They are a fraternal organization of veterans of the Union army, with posts all across the country."

"They do a lot of good things," added Buster, "like making sure veterans get their pensions. They help the widows and children, too. They also have reunions. You should've been here when the Pennsylvania Division held its encampment a few years ago on East Cemetery Hill. It was quite a sight to see, all those white tents spread out, like the armies were back."

Miranda, with Buster's help, was getting the luncheon prepared. Erik and Joshua took the opportunity to wander about.

"So, this is where you fought?" Erik asked Joshua. The ex-soldier nodded. "Do you remember much about that day?"

Joshua, notebook in hand, replied. _Not much. I remember it being hot. We were common soldiers. We did as we were ordered. Strategies are for the generals. I remember fighting alongside my comrades. There was smoke, noise, confusion, pain, and then nothing until I woke up in a field hospital._

Erik looked across the peaceful countryside, imagining how it must have looked with two massive armies struggling over the ground. He knew what battlefields looked like, had seen the effects of war on Paris back in 1870 as well as in the Middle East. It was this kind of memorialization that was new and different to him. To the best of his knowledge, there were very few memorials actually on battlefields themselves. Most of them, like the Arc de Triomphe, were in the victors' major cities. He knew that veterans would occasionally return to the scene of their battles, but he had never encountered anything like what was happening in Gettysburg.

A true friendship had formed with Miranda and Joshua, and Erik had been concerned that visiting Gettysburg would not only upset Joshua, but would send him into a fit of melancholia. This was one of the motivating reasons behind his accompanying them – to help keep an eye on Joshua. However, this had not turned out to be the case. Joshua and the many other veterans Erik had observed during his short stay here displayed a sense of pride, of having not just done a difficult job, but having done it well. True, there would be the occasionally mention of fallen comrades no longer with them, but overriding any sadness was respect and honor for the sacrifices all had made.

"Do you ever have any regrets?" Erik asked.

Joshua made a non-committal gesture. _I wouldn't be human if I didn't have regrets._

"I was wondering…" Erik stopped in mid-sentence. "No, never mind.

_What did you want to know? It's all right. You can ask._

"Forgive me if I am being too personal, but I was wondering – Would you have enlisted and gone to war if you had known what was going to happen to you?"

Joshua pondered the question before answering. _I took my chances. I knew there was always the risk of being injured or killed._

"But…was the sacrifice worth it?"

_I can't bear to think otherwise._

Erik understood then that Joshua had a sense peace that he himself did not have. Unlike Joshua, Erik did not have the luxury of blaming someone or something for his unfortunate appearance, unless he counted God, or Fate. For years, he had allowed his bitterness to cloud his outlook. But things were different now. He had come to understand the old adage about counting one's blessings. So much of his life had been wasted in worrying about his appearance, about that which could not be changed, when he could have been striving to improve those things that would have made his life more meaningful.

Erik glanced over at Miranda, who appeared lost in thoughts of her own.

Joshua apparently read Erik's mind and wrote, _I have offered to release her from our marriage many times, but she will have none of it. I don't know why,_ _but she says she loves me._ The self-deprecating look on Joshua's face relieved Erik, who had been concerned when he first read what Joshua wrote.

At that moment, Miranda looked over in their direction and waved. She picked a few wildflowers, making a bouquet, and joined them. "You two appear to be in deep conversation. Would you rather I left you alone?"

Joshua shook his head. _No._ _I was telling Erik what an extraordinary woman you are_.

Miranda blushed. "Just like my husband," she said to Erik. "Always flattering me."

Joshua reached for her hand._ After the battle, when she learned I'd been wounded, she made the trip here. If not for her, I might not have survived my ordeal._

The smile left her face as she recalled that summer of 1863. "For days after learning of the battle, I agonized over my husband's fate. It was almost a week before I saw his name among the casualties listed in the newspaper. I can still remember what it said: 'Joshua Lathrop, 73 NYV, gunshot wound to face, severe.'

"I made up my mind to find him and bring him home. It took me nearly a week to make the trip, and when I finally arrived here, there was no place to stay. The carnage defies description, and the air was heavy with the stench of death. There wasn't a building that hadn't been pressed into service as a hospital. It took me the better part of a week to find Joshua, and when I did, I realized that his condition was far worse than anything I could have expected.

"I nursed him day and night, and as soon as he was strong enough to travel, I insisted on his being transferred to one of the military hospitals back in New York. He spent more than six months in the hospital, where he recuperated until he was well enough to come home."

"This had to have been difficult for both of you," Erik said, knowing that this barely began to describe what the two of them must have endured.

"Yes," said Miranda, "it was, but that's all in the past now…"

Erik knew this was not true, that after all these years they were still dealing with the ramifications of what happened that summer's day in Pennsylvania. He believed that how these two dealt with day-to-day living required more bravery than any ever needed on a battlefield.

"Lunch is ready," she announced, not wanting to dwell upon sad times. "Shall we partake?"

Erik could see that Joshua was tiring and discreetly offered his arm for support. Joshua gratefully accepted, and Erik was pleased to allow his friend the dignity of at least appearing strong in front of his wife as they returned to the blanket spread on the ground with its food ready for hungry stomachs.

-0-0-0-

Warm sun shone down upon the picnickers, while in the nearby trees, birds warbled. In the grassy fields, bees were buzzing. It was tranquil and bucolic, and Erik found it hard to imagine bloody war being waged upon these grounds.

"I know you've bought a house. Does this mean you plan on making New York your permanent home?" Miranda asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"My original plan was to stay a few months, perhaps a year. But now? I don't think I would care to return to Europe. Not permanently."

_Did you ever serve in the military? _Joshua asked.

"Indirectly," Erik said. "I was a wanderer for a good portion of my life. About the same time you were here, in the Union army, I was serving at the court of the Shah of Persia."

"Persia?" Miranda asked, amazed. "That sounds …I'm not sure – exotic I think is the word I'm looking for."

Erik laughed softly. "I don't think exotic quite covers it."

-0-0-0-

_It was near dawn. Erik and Rahzoul waited in the Khanum's antechamber, as they had been directed. Their mission had not been a failure; neither had it been a complete success. Erik languidly leaned against the wall, while Rahzoul Daroga fidgeted and paced. _

"_How can you be so calm after what happened tonight?" Rahzoul demanded, panic creeping into his voice._

_Erik, his face unreadable because of the black silk mask he always wore at court, shrugged his shoulders. "What happened has happened. Worrying won't change anything."_

"_And you think the Khanum will accept that explanation?" the other man snapped. "Forgive me for saying this, but you are a foreigner, unfamiliar with our ways. You have no idea what awaits those who disappoint the Shah's mother."_

"_I have been in Persia for several years, Rahzoul, most of them in the Lady's service. I think I have a pretty good idea of what she demands from those who serve her, and how she repays those who fail her." He didn't add that any failure in their latest mission had been due to Rahzoul's actions, not his. Rahzoul attempted to continue the conversation, but Erik refused to listen. Instead, he reviewed the events in his mind._

_It had been near midnight, a dark, moonless night; perfect for the work they had to do. The two of them had hidden behind boulders, watching the villa below. Later, when the household had gone to sleep, they would climb over the wall the surrounded the home and steal in. _

_Two days earlier, the Khanum had summoned Erik and Rahzoul to her chambers. Her informants had been hearing rumors of a possible assassination attempt. She had no names and no evidence, only suspicions that certain court officials were involved. Her instructions to the two men were brief. _

"_I want to know whether these rumors are true and, if so, who is involved. What I do __not__ need is for any of those whose names I have given you to know he is under suspicion. I want you to slip into the house of this man," she said, showing them a picture of a well-known courtier, "find out if he is involved, and report back to me. _

"_Go now. You have a task to perform. There must be no evidence that either of you were ever in the house. Is that clear? Do it quickly and silently, and you will be rewarded accordingly."_

_And so, on the night of the mission, they had waited for two hours after all the lights had been extinguished, allowing the household plenty of time during which to fall asleep. Satisfied that the way was now clear, Erik and Rahzoul had slipped quietly into the villa through an open window. They had studied floor plans of the house; plans bought from a servant, and they knew exactly what room they wanted to search – the library. It didn't take long to find the evidence they sought. They quickly read the documents they'd found, memorizing the pertinent information, and slipped back out. They were near the wall when Rahzoul stopped. _

"_I must return," he whispered to Erik. "I think I left something behind, something that could point to my having been inside."_

"_I looked before we left. There was nothing of ours inside." _

_Erik knew that what Rahzoul really wanted to return for was the golden scorpion he'd been admiring on one of the bookshelves. The man had a fascination with scorpions, and had a vast collection of the creatures – both living and in works of art. No doubt, he wanted to return and appropriate the one they'd seen. "If we go back, we risk the chance of being discovered. It's almost dawn. Some of the retainers will be awake soon, if they aren't already."_

"_I shall go by myself. No sense risking both our lives." _

"_No. We both go," Erik insisted. "If there is trouble…"_

_Rahzoul shook his head emphatically. "There won't be. Wait for me outside the wall, by the camels."  
_

_There was no use in arguing with Rahzoul. Once he had his mind made up, there was no changing it. Erik knew it was better to wait and, if necessary, be there to help get Rahzoul out of any trouble that might arise. _

_A noise grabbed Erik's attention and he looked towards the house. It was as he had feared – the household was beginning to stir. He watched in anger as Rahzoul scurried out through a window, two of the estate bodyguards close on his heels. _

_Rahzoul scampered over the wall and towards the place where Erik was waiting. _

"_Run," Erik ordered. "Take the camels. Come back in fifteen minutes."_

"_But…what are you going to do?"_

"_What needs to be done."_

_Rahzoul nodded and fled with the camels, returning when directed. When he did, he found Erik kneeling beside two bodies, wrapping a length of catgut and removing any signs that the men had followed them. _

"_We take them into the desert and bury them," Erik instructed. _

-0-0-0-

_Once ensconced with the Khanum, Rahzoul, as the senior of the two, gave his report first. When asked if all had gone smoothly, he admitted that they had been forced to eliminate two retainers, but politely insinuated that Erik had in some way been responsible for alerting the household. Erik outwardly deferred to Rahzoul's description of what happened, but inwardly was livid. Rahzoul, however, was the Daroga while he, in spite of the trust the Khanum had placed in him, was still an outsider. For these reasons, Erik decided it would be best to bide his time. _

_As they prepared to take their leave, the Khanum ordered Erik to stay. _

_"I have things to say to your ears alone, Magician. Rahzoul __Daroga__, you may leave," she said dismissively._

_And Rahzoul left, his expression clouded, displaying concern that Erik would expose his ineptness._

_The Shah's mother pursed her lips and she considered her next question. "You did not contradict Rahzoul __Daroga, __even though he impugned your reputation and your honor. Are you sure that you have told me everything?"_

"_Forgive me, Great Lady, but some things are best kept unspoken. The Daroga and I must work together. Disharmony between us would be detrimental to future tasks we might find ourselves assigned to. If the Daroga believes I am responsible for jeopardizing our assignment, then it is not my place to contradict him."_

_The old lady frowned. "That is very laudable of you, Magician, and I respect your wishes. But, between an old woman and a foreigner, tell me the truth. Was Rahzoul Khadem __Kermanshahi Daroga responsible for jeopardizing the mission?"_

_Erik looked the old woman in the eys. "Why ask what in your heart you know to be true?"_

_Her face clouded with concern __as she considered the possibility that the Daroga was not trustworthy. "Thank you, Magician. That will be all."_

-0-0-0-

Erik shook off the memory and saw Miranda waiting for him to explain.

"Persia was a strange land, very unlike this one." He looked around and chuckled as a thought struck him. "At least there are no scorpions in Gettysburg."

"Scorpions? Aren't they unpleasant creatures?"

"Very unpredictable, with a nasty sting," he replied, thinking of the daroga.

Their lunch over, Erik helped pack the basket as they prepared to resume their tour.

After spending all day touring the battlefield, Erik, Miranda and Joshua had supper served in their rooms at the hotel. It was early evening, and being mid-summer, there was still plenty of light and warmth left to the day. Miranda had a slight headache and, after eating, excused herself and went to her room to lie down. Joshua was feeling restless and informed Erik that he was going to step outside for some fresh air. Left on his own, Erik decided to visit the taproom for a nightcap. Taking his drink with him, he went to the lounge in the hotel lobby, found a comfortable chair, picked up a newspaper and started reading when he heard some commotion coming from outside.

"Hey, mister. C'mon, show us why you got your face covered."

The words immediately sent up an alarm. Erik rose from his chair and stepped out on the verandah. Across the street, Joshua was attempting to walk but he was being harassed by a youth, perhaps seventeen years of age. A couple of the young man's friends were hanging back and appeared to be trying to stop the companion from being so belligerent.

"Nate! Stop it! Leave the man alone."

"But I wanna know why he covers his face like he's a bandit," Nate yelled back at his friends. "Is that what you are, mister?" he said to Joshua. "A bank robber?"

"Nate, your Pa's gonna be mad if he finds out what you're doing."

"Aw, Pa can go climb a tree."

The sight of the quiet, dignified Joshua being taunted made Erik see red. Infuriated, he jumped over the rail of the verandah, bolted across the street, and grabbed the miscreant by the scruff of his neck. He lifted the boy off his feet and pushed him high against the streetlamp.

"You want to see what's behind a mask?" he growled menacingly. "Let me show you." He tore off his own mask and shoved his face into Nate's. The cadaverous skin of his cheek rubbed against Nate's as he spoke. "Is this what you wanted to see?"

Nate struggled to get away, shocked, horrified, and sickened by the sight in front of his face. "Oh, please, mister!" he whined, his bravado gone. "P-Please, lemme go. I wasn't meanin' nothing by it. We were just foolin'. Honest!" A dark, wet stain appeared on the crotch of his pants as Erik's grip around his neck tightened.

Erik looked down at the boy with disdain. Like many a bully, he was only brave as long as he had the advantage over a weaker victim. "Not good enough!" Erik spat. "You don't apologize to me. You apologize to _him_." He pointed to Joshua. "That man left the rest of his face on the battlefield, defending _your _country. I suggest you thank _him_ for his sacrifice. I suggest you shake his hand and look him in the eye when you speak to him, and don't you _dare_ to let him see you flinch. Do you understand me?" he said, shaking the ruffian none too gently. _"Do you?"_

Erik quickly replaced his mask with one hand, while keeping a death grip on Nate with the other. "Now!" he ordered. He pushed the boy towards Joshua, who straightened himself to his full height and glared down his nose at his would-be tormenter.

"I…I'm sorry," Nate mumbled, focusing on the ground by his feet.

"Louder," Erik said, forcing Nate's head up, making him look at Joshua. "This man is a war hero. His name is Mr.Lathrop. I want all of Gettysburg to hear your apology."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lathrop," Nate managed to say, louder this time. Tearfully, he blubbered that he was sorry for bothering Joshua and that he'd never do anything like this again. "Can I go now, mister? Please? I wanna go home."

Erik nodded slowly. Satisfied that the lesson had been taught, he released Nate, who quickly scampered off, his cohorts right behind him. "Are you all right?" Erik asked, as he examined his friend for any sign of injury.

Joshua shrugged and nodded, indicating that he was unhurt. And as they stood there, a strange sound greeted their ears. It was the sound of applause.

They turned around and looked back across the street. On the hotel verandah, a number of guests and employees had turned out when they heard the hubbub, and for a full minute, they applauded Erik's actions. There were congratulatory slaps on the back, and commendations for "putting that young hooligan in his place." A stranger asked if they need anything, and Erik replied that what they would like was a little peace and quiet. With that, the crowd dispersed, leaving them alone.

Once the on-lookers had scattered, the two men stood, taciturn and uncomfortable in the denouement of the altercation.

"Join me for a drink?" Erik asked uncertainly.

Joshua heaved a sigh of relief that he was no longer the center of unpleasant attention. _Yes._

They retired to the taproom where the bartender showed them to a quiet booth in the back. He returned shortly with a couple of ales. "This is on the house," he remarked, smiling as he produced a straw for Joshua.

The two men sipped their drinks in companionable silence, and Joshua pulled out his ever-present notebook.

_I see what you meant yesterday about a temper._

Erik looked up questioningly, wondering if Joshua would ever trust him again now that he had shown his true colors.

Joshua's eyes sparkled mischievously as he offered a handshake to Erik. _Let's not tell Miranda about this. It will only upset her_._ She worries far too much over me as it is._

Erik shook his hand, feeling strangely at ease. "Then it shall remain our secret."

**

* * *

**

**Historical Note: **The fighting at the Peach Orchard took place on July 2, 1863. If you visit Gettysburg National Military Park, you can still see where the original orchard stood in 1863, part of the Sherfy farm. The orchard was much larger then, and it was heavily damaged by the fighting, with many of the trees broken and cut. Mr. Sherfy repaired and salvaged as many of the trees as possible, then planted new ones to replace those lost. He also sold canned peaches from his orchard with an advertisement authenticating them from his original peach trees on the battleground.


	13. Love and Loss

**Author's Note:** Sorry that this is a couple days later than usual. No excuse. I just plain got busy at work and forgot to post yesterday! A great big thanks to all my reviewers. It's been a lot of fun to find so many others who share my interest in history and the American Civil War, and who have been to Gettysburg. And now a word of warning. You might want to have a tissue or two on hand for this chapter. --HD

* * *

**  
The Way to Love  
****Chapter 13  
****Love and Loss**

Erik returned home from the week-long trip to Gettysburg tired and emotionally drained, but at the same time, he was more at peace with himself than he ever remembered having been. Since coming to New York, he had found himself being drawn out from his self-imposed shell and reaching out to humanity, even though that had been the last thing he had been looking for. He had formed a comradeship with Ambrose and the people at the infirmary. With the Lathrops, he'd discovered what true friendship was, and wanted to do all within his power to help these good people. But right now, what he was looking forward to most was luxuriating in a nice, hot bath.

"Welcome home, Mr. D. How was your trip?" Mrs. Flynn asked as she took Erik's hat and overcoat, and put them away.

"It was quite . . . different. I can't say that I've ever seen a place quite like Gettysburg before. Have you ever been there?"

"No, and I don't think I'd ever wish to," she said, and then added, "I lost my husband there."

Erik, disconcerted by his housekeeper's unexpected admission, offered his condolences.

"Goodness me, sir, I didn't mean he was killed there. I lost him to one of those camp followers. Pretended to be a vivandière, she did. You know, one of those regimental mascots, daughter of the regiment and all that nonsense. She was no vivandière; she was a floozy named Hermione Deutch who'd joined the other camp followers when the army was in Pennsylvania. Mr. Flynn had the audacity to send me a letter and some money, informing me that when he got out of the army, he would be asking me for a divorce so he could hook up with Miss Deutch. Oh, and he wished me well, too. As if that would make everything well."

"Are they still...together?" Erik asked hesitantly. Goodness only knew how a woman scorned would react to such a question, even when the scorning had taken place almost twenty years ago.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "They moved out to Kansas where he promptly got himself shot in a barroom brawl. Don't know whatever happened to Miss Deutch. Can't say that I really care either."

"Yes. Well, I don't blame you there," said Erik, not knowing what he was expected to say, but certain he was not supposed to side with Mr. Flynn. "Was there any mail while I was gone?" he asked, changing the subject. "Anything else I need to know about?"

Mrs. Flynn feared that she had been talking too much and returned to the business at hand. "All the mail's on your desk in the library. Only a few pieces. Oh, and the workers finished the bathroom while you were gone."

Erik broke into a grin of anticipation. "Let's take a look, shall we?"

They went upstairs where he inspected the room. Several weeks earlier, he had called upon J. L. Mott Iron Works on Beekman Street, where he'd purchased a porcelain-lined bathtub with a shower enclosure, a water closet, a matching bidet and sitz-bath (for those days when he didn't want to take a full bath), and a freestanding sink with hot and cold water taps. After the furnishings were installed, they were enclosed in mahogany wainscoting that matched the woodwork in the bathroom. Erik inspected the room and, satisfied with the workmanship, turned back to Mrs. Flynn. "I'd like a hot bath drawn," he instructed. "Then, I wish not to disturbed for any reason."

"What about a fire?" she asked innocently.

Erik frowned at her, having no idea what fire she was referring to.

"I mean, if the house catches on fire."

Erik couldn't tell if the woman was serious or joking. "Very well," he sighed, deciding to take her question at face value. "If the house is on fire, you may inform me of that."

Mrs. Flynn smiled and bobbed her head. "Very well, sir."

-0-0-0-

His bath drawn, Erik went into his bedroom and undressed. He grabbed his dressing gown, entered the steamy bathroom, and locked the door. Even though the staff had all been given explicit instructions never to enter a room without knocking first – a bit of self-protection in the event he was not wearing his mask for some reason – he didn't want to risk the chance of one of the servants forgetting. No need having one of the chambermaids screaming and making a fuss. Besides, a man needed his privacy. He took off his dressing gown, hung it on a hook, turned down the lights, and submerged himself into the hot water.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath as his body relaxed. His body ached from the confinement in a small train compartment, and he flexed the taut muscles of his upper back before submerging himself into the hot water and stretching out his long legs and settled back against the cool curvature of the porcelain tub.

He laid there, dozing off as the warm water eased the knots from his muscles, when he heard what sounded like rumbling from above. He opened his eyes and looked up. Overhead, resting on top of the shower enclosure next to the Boston fern was something large and furry with one green, glowing eye…and claws.

"What the...!" Erik shot up in the tub at the same time the animal jumped down from shower and landed gracefully on the windowsill. From there, it launched itself towards the tub, landing with a pirouette as graceful as any ballet dancer's on the sill around the tub. It's long, bushy tail swished back and forth, and the animal glared defiantly at Erik with its one good eye, daring him to do something about its presence.

Erik bolted out of the tub. Dripping wet, he grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his middle. He dashed out of the room, one hand holding the towel in place while the other covered the bad side of his face.

"Mrs. Flynn!" he roared. _"Venez ici! J'ai besoin de vous,"_ he called out in French, then corrected himself. "Come here quickly! I need you!"

The housekeeper rushed upstairs, covering her eyes when she found Erik standing in the hallway, water pooling around his bare feet. "Goodness, sir, whatever is the matter?" she asked, struggling between keeping her eyes demurely averted and wanting to peek between her fingers at the nearly-naked man standing before her.

"There's _un_ _bete sauvage dans le_...that is, a wild animal in the bathroom!"

"A what?" she asked, mortified. She gave up all pretense of not looking and started to go into the bathroom, but Erik blocked her path protectively.

"Don't go in there," he said excitedly. "It has a tail, and claws, and only one eye! I'm not positive, but it may be some sort of wild cat! Call the gardener and tell him to bring a hoe. We may need weapons."

"Saints be praised!" she said, suddenly relieved and stifling a laugh. "It's only Seamus! The poor wee beastie must be more afraid of you than you are of him, I'll warrant. He must've slipped in when I wasn't looking..."

"Seamus? What is this 'seamus'?" The truth dawned on him. "Is it a...a pet?"

Mrs. Flynn nodded worriedly and led the way into the bathroom, where they found Seamus sitting on the edge of the bathtub, playfully batting at the water. Mrs. Flynn went over and picked him up, all two feet and twenty pounds of him, scolded the cat, and then turned to Erik. "Yes, sir. The cat's mine, sir. I had no idea he got into the house. I keep him outside. Honest I do. Please, don't make me get rid of him. He's really quite tame, sir. You won't even know he's here..."

Erik raised his eyebrow. "I already know he's here! And what about Wolf? How do you think he'll treat the cat?"

"Oh," she said, smiling. "They get along famously. Never a peep out of either of them all the time you were gone. Seamus is as gentle as a lamb, he is. He'll be no trouble at all." She turned to leave, with Seamus draped over her shoulder. The cat glared at Erik with his one evil eye.

Erik stood in the middle of the room, glaring back at him. It looked as though his household had grown again.

-0-0-0-

Summer faded into fall. The air was cooler these days and the leaves were changing from green to gold. Taking advantage of the brisk autumn morning, Erik and Wolf walked to the Lathrop house, where the aroma of Miranda's lemon teacake wafted from the oven.

It was good to see the Lathrops, although he noticed that Joshua tired easily these days. Concern for his friend filled Erik. Perhaps the trip to Gettysburg had taken too great a toll on his friend's health. Determined to do something about it, Erik took the liberty of arranging for a physician to examine the veteran. The trick was to convince Joshua to allow the doctor to see him.

"There is a matter I wish to discuss with you," Erik said, sitting next to Joshua on the sofa. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and propped his chin on his fists. "I have seen a surgeon. He tells me that he may be able to remove tissue that is pressing on a nerve in my face. It is…troublesome, and causes me headaches. The physician believes this surgery will provide some measure of relief."

Joshua scribbled a note excitedly, his eyes lighting up at the prospect. _What are you waiting for? If I thought something could be done for me, wild horses couldn't stop me. _

Erik stared at the note in consternation. "Wild horses?"

Miranda laughed softly. "He means, he wouldn't waste any time getting to the doctor's office," she explained, as she patted Joshua's hand affectionately.

"Good," Erik said, clearly relieved. "Then we are agreed that Joshua will see the surgeon as well."

_I couldn't possibly do it. I've been told a hundred times that nothing can be done for me... _Joshua looked away, unable to think of anything but the horror that lay beneath his bandages.

"It's true, Erik," Miranda said quickly. "Joshua's had his hopes raised many times in the past, and suffered as many disappointments." She looked into the fire before turning back to Erik with a glimmer of optimism in her eyes. "Are you sure?"

"It is already arranged," Erik said, neglecting to tell them of the true nature of the arrangement – that he would secretly be providing Joshua's medical care. "Ambrose says the surgeon has an excellent reputation, and he is very much interested in seeing you. He has already examined me, and although I will never have a normal face, he thinks I will be more comfortable after the surgery." He paused, measuring the anxiety that was growing with every passing moment. "I apologize if I have overstepped my bounds, but I only had your best interests at heart. I thought, if he can help me, maybe he can help my closest friend."

Joshua's head jerked up, and he looked at Erik in surprise. _Your closest friend?_

"My closest friend," Erik said quietly, clapping Joshua's shoulder gently. "Look, the doctor said that since we are having similar surgery," he hedged, "he would do both at the same time for a special rate. It's like having two surgeries for the cost of one." He hoped they would believe him. After all, it was a thin lie.

"Yes," Miranda said with a wry smile. "Your ability to secure discounts for our benefit is fortuitous indeed."

Erik kept a straight face. "All I ask is that you think about it, and give it due consideration. Don't feel compelled to do it because you want to help me."

_How would I be helping you?_ Joshua wrote, unconvinced.

"You don't think I want to go through this alone, do you? We'd be in the hospital at the same time. We can share a room," he said with a sly grin. "Maybe chase the nurses?"

_I'll think about it, but I'm not so sure about the nurses. Many of them are not very comely,_ Joshua scrawled, clearly amused by Erik's efforts. Then he added, _Will there be ice cream?_

"All you can eat," Erik laughed.

-0-0-0-

Erik paced the floor as his mind tried to register the news he was being given. The memory of the pleasant afternoon – only yesterday – replayed itself again and again, in stark contrast to the reality of what had happened during the night. He turned to Ambrose. "Are…are you sure?"

The older man nodded sadly. "Miranda sent word this morning. Apparently, Joshua died in his sleep. Not a bad way to go, considering all he's been through."

"How can you say that?" Erik said, angry and hurt, Joshua's death beginning to sink in. "He never had a chance to get his affairs in order! He never had a chance to be the kind of man he could have been! He never had a chance to…to…do anything a normal man can do."

Ambrose understood Erik far better than Erik realized. "What you're really upset about is that you never had a chance to say goodbye to him. Or to get him to that fancy new doctor you've been seeing."

The comment stung. Erik flung himself into his chair, deflated and defeated. He combed his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of everything. "I only meant to help him."

"And you did, son, you did. You gave him hope. He lived more in the past six months than he had in the previous seventeen years. Ever since he was wounded, he had been dying slowly. You gave him back his life. If he could, he'd tell you the same thing."

"It's unfair," Erik said slamming his fist against the table as he fought back burning tears. "A fine man like Joshua suffered for nearly two decades, while others roam the streets doing nothing but harm to innocent people."

"C'mon. We need to go see Miranda, and help her make arrangements."

Erik shuddered. "His body is…is still at his home?"

Ambrose nodded. "Miranda doesn't need to go through this alone. Are you up to it?"

"I'll do what I can," Erik said, standing slowly.

They walked in silence to the Lathrop's house, stopping long enough for Erik to buy roses from a corner market. When Miranda opened the door, Erik could see that her face was drawn and pale, and her eyes were swollen with tears.

"Thank you for coming," she said emotionlessly. "And thank you for the flowers," she said, as she fingered the petals. "Joshua loved them so. And he loved both of you, more than anything. You'll never know how much he loved you." She broke down, utterly bereft. She wept loudly behind her worn handkerchief, and Erik's heart broke for her.

He dropped his hat on the floor and clasped her in his arms, hugging her like a brother while he shed tears of his own. Ambrose alternated patting Miranda's and Erik's shoulder, providing what comfort he could. He had seen too many young men die as a result of the war. Nearly two decades had passed, and men were still giving their lives for the Union.

"The undertaker left shortly before you arrived," Miranda said, once she could speak again. "They'll be coming for...for him this afternoon. If either of you wants to say good bye…"

Ambrose and Erik exchanged glances. "Of course," Ambrose said sincerely. "He was a good man, and I'll miss him. His like will not soon be seen again."

"He bore his hardship with grace and courage," Erik added.

They went to the bedside out of a sense of duty. The body was cold and colorless, and barely resembled the dignified man Erik remembered. What remained was a shell, nothing more. He had seen enough of death to know that Joshua had died hours earlier, probably before dawn. The thought of Miranda waking up to find her husband, dead in bed beside her, made his blood run cold.

"When did he die?" he asked.

Miranda sat on the edge of the bed and held Joshua's hand. "He was writing in his notebook late last night. I fell asleep while he was still writing. When I woke up, he was gone." She handed the notebook to Erik, and said, "Read the last page. He mentions you."

Erik's hands trembled slightly as he accepted the journal. He sat on the chair near the window, and through blurry eyes read,

_Erik has arranged for a doctor to see me, to try to close up my wound. Although the thought of going under the knife fills me with trepidation, I have a good feeling about the outcome. For the first time since the war, things are looking up. Imagine! What if Erik is right? A man has to hope for the best._

_All things considered, I have been blessed. I have had the love of a good woman, and the friendship of two fine men. Erik has been like a brother to me, and Ambrose has been like a father. A man could do worse than being surrounded by people he loves, and who love him in return. _

_I have made my peace with the Good Lord. I don't expect the doctor can work miracles, but God willing, the surgery will make life easier for Miranda. She worries about me so..._

Here, the ink trailed across the page, as if Joshua had been stricken mid-sentence.

Miranda looked on grimly while Ambrose said goodbye to his old friend. "He is at peace; his suffering is finally at an end." He bent down and placed a kiss on Joshua's gray forehead before covering his face with a sheet, and then he quoted a poem,

_This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,  
__Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,  
__Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.  
__Night, sleep, and the stars._

"Good night, sweet prince," Erik whispered. "May guardian angels sing thee to thy rest."

-0-0-0-

Erik looked around at the light dusting of snow on the ground. It was still hard to believe that it had been three months since Joshua died. As had become his habit, every Sunday he went with Miranda to visit Joshua's grave. Today, she was going to place a farewell "gift" on her husband's grave. She had informed Erik that she was going to stay with her sister in Ohio for now.

"I need some time away from all the painful memories," she had said. Erik assured her that he would continue to see that the grave was properly tended. Miranda placed a wreath of evergreens on the small grave and then stood up.

"Will you be coming back?" Erik asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe." She reached inside her coat pocket and brought out a small package. "I was going to save this for Christmas, but since I won't be here, I thought to give this to you now. I found it when I was going through Joshua's things."

Erik untied the twine holding the small box together. He pulled off the lid and saw, nestled amongst the tissue paper, a gold pocket watch. He lifted it out of its box and held it as if it were the greatest treasure on the earth. "It's one of Joshua's pocket watches," he said, remembering the distraction that the watches had provided, of how they had provided a hobby and a modest income for his friend. Yet, Joshua had saved the best one for him, as a lasting memento of their time together.

Miranda smiled wistfully. "Go ahead. Open it."

Erik pushed down on the stem and the cover popped open. He looked closer and saw the words Joshua had engraved on the inside of the lid.

_To my friend, Erik. From Joshua. Christmas 1882._

Tears clouded Erik's eyes. He carefully closed the watch and put it in his pocket. "Thank you, Miranda." He looked down at Joshua's grave. "Thank you, my friend. I shall never forget you."

They stood silently together at the graveside, each lost in thought. It was Erik who spoke. "You and Joshua loved each other very much," he said, stating the obvious.

"If I learned anything from my time with Joshua," she said, "It is that the way to love someone is to realize that you can lose them at any time."

Erik gave her a puzzled look.

"If you love someone, tell her that you love her every day," Miranda explained, "because you have no way of knowing if that will be your last day together. You must do something special for her, everyday. It may be something as small as a note left on her pillow, reminding her of your affection. It could be a flower, a piece of ribbon, a card. Anything that tells her, 'I love you.'"

As Erik listened, he knew instinctively that Miranda was telling him how it had been for her and Joshua, how they had maintained their love even through the most trying of times.

"Remind her of how precious she is to you."

Erik shook his head sadly. "Long ago…I lost the one woman I will ever love," he said reflectively.

"I hope not. If any man deserves happiness, it is you, Erik. You're a good man. Never forget that."

They walked in comfortable silence towards the carriage.

"May I ask you a personal question, Erik?"

He hesitated, and then answered, "You may ask."

"Was her name Christine?"

"Yes, but…how do you know?" he asked, surprise in his voice.

"Do you remember our train trip back from Gettysburg? You spoke her name while you were napping. Don't worry," she grinned, "I won't reveal your secret."

"Did I say anything else?" Erik asked, having never known that he called her name in his sleep.

"Very little, actually. You were speaking in French. I only understood her name and what sounded like _je regret_ – something about regret or sorrow."

Awash with remorse, the words poured forth. "I made a terrible bungle of things. By assuming she would love me simply because I loved her, I actually drove her away. She is no doubt happily married to the Vicomte de Chagny and the toast of Paris."

Miranda took his hand into hers. "Don't give up, Erik. You never know what the future may hold."

-0-0-0-

January 1, 1883. New Years Day. Erik had given the staff the day off so that they could celebrate the holiday with their families. The only others in the house were Seamus, who had taken over one of the window seats, Wolf, who parked himself by the fireplace and kept an eye on Seamus, and Mrs. Flynn, who said she had no family in town that needed her attention and preferred to remain here.

That was fine with Erik. He did not really want to be alone. Without Joshua or Miranda to visit, the days were often long, and he spent many hours at the infirmary, keeping busy. But even the infirmary was closed for the day.

So Erik sat in the library, reading the newspaper. One item in particular caught his eye. It seemed as though the Metropolitan Opera Company was trying to secure the famous Parisian diva, Christine Daaé, to come to New York City for the opening of the new opera house next season. Erik didn't know how long he stared at the article when he heard the doorbell ring. He waited while Mrs. Flynn answered the door, wondering if Ambrose had stopped by.

"Mr. D? A delivery man brought this." Mrs. Flynn handed Erik a package about the size of a hatbox.

"Was there a message with it?" he asked.

"No, sir. Maybe it's a Christmas present from Mrs. Lathrop. You know how the postal service is sometimes late in getting these things delivered."

"Well, we're not going to find out just looking at it, are we?" Erik opened the package. Inside the box were two brass sculptures – one a grasshopper, the other a scorpion. He looked at the objects in disbelief, as he remembered the Khanum's words.

_You are like the grasshopper, industrious and noble, while Rahzoul is the scorpion, dangerous and attracted to power. Beware the Daroga; he will never be satisfied until he has destroyed you._

"That's an odd choice for a gift. Are they from Mrs. Lathrop, sir?" the housekeeper asked.

"No," said Erik quietly as he looked to see if there was anything else in the box. "There's no card, but I suspect they are a gift from an old acquaintance."

* * *

**  
****End Note:** The poem Ambrose quotes is Whitman's _A Clear Midnight_. And yes, it is terribly hard to kill off a character you've grown to love. Even though I originally wrote this chapter a couple months ago, I still teared up when I reviewed it over to make sure I had all my I's dotted and my T's crossed. 


	14. The Metropolitan

**Author's Note:** I believe this is what everyone's been waiting for -- the return of a certain opera singer. Let me know what you think. -HD

* * *

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 14  
The Metropolitan**

_Mid-Summer 1883_

Erik lay in bed, eyes closed tight, conscious enough to be aware of the street sounds drifting in through the half-open window yet too comfortable to wish to be fully awake. After two days and nights in a hospital, it felt good to sleep in his own bed. The corners of his mouth curled into a self-satisfied smile as he recalled yesterday's homecoming, with Mrs. Flynn fussing over him like a mother hen. Naturally, he pretended not to care for all the extra attention, but the truth was that he eagerly lapped up as much of it as he could. Through most of his life, he'd never had anyone take much interest in his well-being, and he was finding the he rather liked how it felt. Lying in bed, he reflected on all that had happened over the past six months.

In the weeks immediately following the arrival of the bronze grasshopper and scorpion, Erik had been alert to the very real possibility of danger. He had recognized the objects for what they were, a warning from Rahzoul – but a warning of what? After all these years, what did the man want? Erik remained watchful of everyone and everything, expecting to find the Daroga lurking in every shadow. Although he suspected they thought him slightly mad, if not completely insane, he had instructed the staff to be alert to anything out of the ordinary, particularly to any strangers who might be lurking nearby. He often ordered Mrs. Flynn to double-check the doors and windows each night to ensure they were locked, and even then he would check them again himself before retiring for the night.

Being constantly on the alert left him edgy, and many times Erik found himself snapping at someone for no good reason. Ambrose noticed this and finally had pulled him aside, asking what the problem was, worried that his friend was having difficulties adjusting to the loss of Joshua. Erik felt bad at upsetting both his household and Ambrose, but was reticent to disclose the exact nature of the problem, and so he allowed them believe that this was indeed the situation and added a promise to control himself a little better.

The cool days of spring turned to the warmth summer, and still nothing dreadful happened. There were no more mysterious packages, no notes, and no attacks. Gradually, Erik allowed himself to ease up on his vigilance. He made up his mind that he would no longer allow Rahzoul to dictate how he lived. Once before, the Daroga had disrupted his life. It was because of him that Erik had been forced to flee Persia and a life that he could have embraced. He'd spent years as a fugitive, hiding from the Persian's spies, allowing Rahzoul's bitterness and hatred to influence his decisions and reinforce his dislike of humanity. But things were different now. In the past, Erik had cared for little, but now he had true friends, a real home, and a community of people depending on him. He was resolved that no more would he hide, least of all from one such as Rahzoul. He would remain cautious. He would remain watchful, but he would not conceal his presence like a coward.

Through all of this, he and Miranda kept in touch, writing each other long letters at least once and often twice a month. In her letters, she admitted that while she still missed Joshua, she was enjoying a certain amount of peace of mind, and was easily settling into her new life. Her sister had a large family that included a husband and ten children of varying ages, and she wrote that the hustle and bustle of a large household was the perfect antidote to her grief. When one time he wrote and asked her if she would ever consider returning to New York, her reply was that perhaps eventually, but not any day soon.

Having come to terms with Joshua's loss and the hidden threat posed by Rahzoul, Erik found other decisions were easier to make. His called once more upon the surgeon he had seen prior to Joshua's passing. The doctor confirmed what Erik had suspected for some time – that his headaches and the occasional blurry vision in his right eye were caused by the benign fleshy tumor that pressed against his right temple and eye. Wearing the mask only aggravated the condition, and the doctor proposed a surgical operation to remove the offending growth. When he told Ambrose of this, the older man applauded Erik's decision to take better care of himself, and offered to help in any way possible, even to arranging for transportation home from the hospital. And that was how it came that Erik found himself lying in bed, half of his face swathed in bandages.

From the start, Seamus and Wolf had staked out their territories in the bedroom. The windowsill belonged to the cat, and the foot of the bed to the dog. Even with his eyes closed, Erik could hear what was taking place. Seamus was glaring at Wolf with his one good eye, the occasional rumble coming from deep within his feline throat, and Wolf, in return, was trying to stare down Seamus, answering the cat with a low growl of his own. Erik had learned that in spite of their incessant posturing, neither would harm the other, and so he remained as he was, his comfort interrupted only when the stitches closing the incision began to itch. Too content to break the mood by opening his eyes, he blindly reached up with his hand to the bandages only to hear a voice castigate him for doing so.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Erik's unbandaged eye shot open and he looked across the room. There was Ambrose, sitting in a chair. "How long have you been here?" he demanded, feeling oddly out of sorts with his friend. "How did you get in?"

"Don't worry," Ambrose laughed. "Wolf has been keeping me in line. But, perhaps you're not feeling up to company. Maybe I should come back later..."

Ambrose made to get up but Erik stopped him. "I didn't mean to offend you," Erik said, chagrined. "It's just that…I'm not accustomed to having people fussing over me, that's all. Please...don't go. I am...happy to see you."

"Think nothing of it. You're self-reliant to a fault, never wanting to be dependent on anyone. Don't worry; I'm not offended. We all get a little grumpy when we're not feeling good. Here, I brought these in case you needed something to read." Ambrose handed Erik a couple of magazines.

"_Harper's Weekly,"_ Erik noted approvingly, "and _Leslie's_, too. Thank you."

"Also wanted to let you know that the renovations are complete, and that old room of yours is now converted into a proper office. Thanks to you, we've made some wonderful improvements to the old place."

Erik felt his cheeks grow warm. After more than a year with the man, he still couldn't get used to Ambrose's praise. As far as he was concerned, what he did at the infirmary was nothing compared to what Ambrose did. The man devoted his entire life to helping the poor, while all Erik did was help out a couple days a week, but the old man would hear none of that.

"If it weren't for your contributions, we would not have been able to secure the services of a full-time doctor. People in the neighborhood now have a physician to call upon on a regular basis regardless of their ability to pay. The kitchen's been expanded so that we can provide not only lunch but supper as well. None of this would have been possible without your hard work…and your financial support. Oh, and before I forget, there's an apple pie for you downstairs. Our cook wanted me to tell you she made it just for you."

Erik's mouth watered at the thought of a big slice of apple pie covered with thick, fresh cream. "Please thank her for me."

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

"Mr. D., it's Mrs. Flynn. May I come in?"

Erik glanced over at Ambrose. "It's all right," the older man said in a stage whisper. "There are enough bandages covering your face so that you look like an Egyptian mummy. She won't see your mug."

"My…mug?"

"Your face."

"Oh."

Erik called to the housekeeper to enter, and Ambrose rose to help with the tray she was carrying.

"I thought you and Mr. Rice might like a piece of pie," she said, setting the tray on a nearby table before coming over to Erik's bed.

"Really, Mrs. Flynn, you needn't trouble yourself—" Erik started to say as she helped him sit up and fluffed his pillows.

"Nonsense," she said. "You're supposed to be taking it easy. I've taken care of sick men before. Used to do it for Mr. Flynn when he was under the weather."

"I thought he ran off with a vivandiére," Erik said.

"This was before he went to war and met up with that hussy," she said, making a face at the mention of Miss Deutch.

"What else is that you have on the tray?" Ambrose asked, noting a couple of bowls next to the plates with the pie.

"Well now," she said, handing Erik a towel to spread on top of the coverlet before passing over his piece of pie, "I brought up a pitcher of fresh, thick cream."

Erik could not suppress the grin that had erupted on his face. "You're a mind reader, Mrs. Flynn."

She beamed at the compliment, and then continued. "And since Seamus and Wolf have taken up residence in your room, I thought it only right to bring the cat a saucer of cream and the dog, or wolf, or whatever he is, a bowl of water."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Erik said, understanding at last that he'd never get the two animals out of his room as he watched Seamus lap up the cream Mrs. Flynn placed in front of him. "By the way, do all cats get that…big?"

Mrs. Flynn gave Seamus a critical look before answering. "He's not really fat, sir. He's just…robust." She took a quick look around the room to see if anything else needed attending to. "If there's nothing else, then, I'll be on my way," she said, excusing herself.

"She's a good woman," Ambrose said as she closed the door.

"That she is," Erik answered.

"You know, you've become a well-known and much respected member of the neighborhood. If you'd like, we could have your name in the local papers. Think of it. You'd be a celebrity."

Erik was thinking about it, but not in the way that Ambrose had in mind. "No, thank you, my friend," he said. "I would prefer to remain an anonymous benefactor. If the papers need to write something, have them write about the people in this city who are truly in need."

-0-0-0-

The following weeks passed quickly. Erik had never been one to lie idly about and was a quick healer. Within two weeks, he was back in his office at the infirmary, a small bandage under the mask the only reminder of his recent surgery. By the end of the month, the wound was all but healed, and Erik found himself taking advantage of New York City's burgeoning entertainment district that was growing up around Broadway.

It may not have been Paris, but the shows were entertaining and New Yorkers showed great enthusiasm in their efforts to make theirs a world-class city. And at least once a week, he made a point of stopping by Broadway and 39th Street, where the new Metropolitan Opera was still under construction. He found himself looking forward to the grand opening with both eagerness and dread when he read more about La Daaé coming to New York City. When that happened, he had no idea what he would do, but he found out soon enough.

"You did what?" Erik asked, looking up from his office desk at Ambrose, who'd entered the room beaming from ear to ear.

"I said, I got us two tickets for the opening night at the Metropolitan. Good seats, too, in box five of the grand tier." He saw the look on Erik's face and worried. "What's wrong? I thought you liked opera."

"I do," said Erik, remembering another box five, another opera house. "It's only…" But he couldn't finish. How could he explain to Ambrose that it wasn't the opera that concerned him, but that it was the fear of seeing Christine again that had him in a quandary? It had been two years since that night on the roof of the Garnier. He looked down at the ring that was his constant companion, his constant reminder of what might have been.

_Who do you think you're fooling,_ the nagging voice in his head scolded. _You won't be able to stay away from her, and you know it. Then again, she has no way of knowing you'll be attending. Hell, she doesn't even know that you're even in this city. Her presence is nothing more than…what? Fate? Coincidence? Kismet? _

He looked at Ambrose and saw the eager expectation on the man's face. He obviously wanted to please Erik, to give him something he thought Erik would like.

_No, I can't disappoint him, so I suppose that means I'll go…and I'll be able to watch her from afar._

He ignored the laughter only he could hear. "It's only that I didn't think you would care to go," he ended lamely.

"Are you kidding? And miss hearing this French songbird? She's supposed to be quite the vocalist."

"She is," Erik said softly. He saw Ambrose give him a questioning look. "She was starting her career on the stage of the Garnier when I left Paris," he explained, not wanting to have to say more. "When is the big occasion?" he asked innocently, knowing very well when _she_ would be singing.

"Next Monday, the 22nd." Ambrose looked down at his shabby coat. "Guess I'd better buy me some new duds so I don't embarrass you."

Erik forced himself to smile. "Don't worry, my friend, you'll be just fine."

-0-0-0-

_October 22, 1883_

Erik was sitting on pins and needles. Ambrose grabbed him by the arm, so caught up in his own excitement that he failed to notice the pained grimace on his friend's face. "Come! Come!" he all but shouted. "It's all been taken care of. Mrs. Van Schuyler has arranged for us to be part of the festivities backstage."

Erik pulled out his pocket watch, the one from Joshua, checking the time while he tried to think of an excuse to bow out. It had been a long evening and was now well past midnight. When they'd first arrived, it had been as if all of New York was out for grand opening of the Metropolitan – from the highest nabobs of the society page to the ordinary working men and women of the city. The carriage lines had been so long that even with three entrances, the passengers disembarking could not be accommodated in a timely manner.

Once they were inside, an usher had showed Erik and Ambrose to their box. It turned out that box five was not a private box. Instead, there were four seats within, the front two already occupied up by a couple of matrons dressed to the nines. Erik had silently fumed as he found himself seeing more of the one lady's feathered headdress than the performers on stage. Worse still were the acoustics. He had steeled himself for a long and nerve-wracking night, musing throughout the prelude and the first scenes at the decision of hiring an architect who understood form less than function, imagining what he might have done had he gotten his hands on those blueprints. The only good thing about Act I had been Christine's brief appearance as Marguerite towards the end, and for that short time, Erik had been transported away from Madam, her feathers, and auditorium's poor sound.

The first intermission had not come a moment too soon. Having seen Christine, if only from a distance, had sent Erik's heart racing. He felt the intense urge to slip out for a breath of air, but Ambrose put a halt to that idea when he offered to get the ladies some refreshments.

"I know we haven't been properly introduced," he said jovially. "My name is Ambrose Rice, and this is my good friend, Mr. Erik Duquesne."

The ladies had nodded politely if somewhat coolly, giving their names as Mrs. Nicholas Van Schuyler (she of the ridiculous feathers) and Mrs. Otis Dumont.

Ambrose was never one to be put off by society airs, and poured on the charm. "I trust you ladies are enjoying the show tonight?" he had asked.

"The décor is quite elegant," Mrs. Dumont had replied, a touch of disdain in her voice.

"True," agreed Mrs. Van Schuyler, "but I find myself much disappointed in the failure of the acoustics. The high voices are the only ones that can be heard clearly, and the orchestra sounds as if it is playing under water."

"I quite agree," said Erik. "It is nothing like the Garnier."

Mrs. Van Schuyler's feather had bobbed as her head perked up at the mention of the Palais Garnier. "You are French?" she had inquired, a small smile forming on her face. "I thought I detected an accent," she said, playfully tapping his forearm with her fan. "Tell me, are you from Paris? Have you been to the famous Opera there?"

Erik could have laughed out loud, as he saw his value suddenly improve in the woman's eyes. _This is probably the closest thing to excitement the old woman's had in a long time_, he thought wryly. "I not only attended many a performance there," he said, allowing his pride in his accomplishments come through, "I worked with Monsieur Garnier on the project." _Hell_, he was tempted to add,_ I once lived there_. The ladies were duly impressed, while Ambrose shot Erik a look of "well done".

Mrs. Van Schuyler, warming to Erik, made an offer. "My friend and I are invited backstage after tonight's opera to pay tribute to tonight's performers. It would be our pleasure to have you accompany us this evening. Our dear, departed husbands, God rest their souls, would smile down from heaven, knowing we were in the company of true gentlemen such as yourselves."

Erik had felt his stomach lurch, knowing that it would be in bad form to refuse a lady's request, while Ambrose had beamed, "That would be wonderful!"

"I … I'm not sure I should go with you," Erik had stammered. He looked pleadingly at Ambrose. "Why don't you go without me? I … I feel a headache coming on."

"Pshaw!" Ambrose had all but giggled. "I'd have never guessed you for the shy, tongue-tied schoolboy type. Besides, you cannot refuse these gracious ladies." He looked at Mrs. Van Schuyler and gave her a wink, "Especially one so pretty as you, my dear."

Swallowing back any further protests, Erik had accepted his fate with stoicism, and had watched the rest of the show, half-dreading and half-looking forward to the moment when he would find himself backstage.

-0-0-0-

"She's French, like you," Ambrose was saying.

True to her word, Mrs. Van Schuyler had seen to it that the two of them were included in the party that was taking place backstage. After making a few introductions – to Signor Campanini, the resident tenor, and Mme. Scalchi, the other soprano, the maestro and some of the other secondary singers – the ladies excused themselves and joined their friends, leaving Erik and Ambrose on their own.

Erik nodded at Ambrose's remark, only half listening, his mind thousands of miles and two years away, back to an overheard conversation on a rooftop. He looked down at the floor, concentrating on the pattern in the carpet and wishing he could slink out of the room, yet was unable to take his mind off of _her_. Even without looking at her, he could hear her, sense her presence.

Up until now, nothing had happened, but that was only because she had not seen him. The room was packed with well-wishers. With so many people around, Erik figured that if he played his cards right, he might possibly make it through the evening without actually having to speak to Christine. It appeared that Ambrose, however, had other ideas.

"My friend here is quite shy. In fact, I believe he would prefer to hide away in a corner rather than come forward on his own and introduce himself."

His mind cleared abruptly as Erik looked up and saw to whom Ambrose was speaking. It was Christine Daaé. He swallowed hard, trying to think of some way, _any _way, to extricate himself from what was surely about to surely erode into an unpleasant situation. The last time they had been together, she had found him frightening, revolting, thanks to his abominable actions back in Paris. He stood motionless, steeling himself as he silently waited for her to scream or spit on him, but was shocked when the opposite happened.

"Hello, Erik," she said, a polite yet slightly shy smile on her face as she held her hand out to him.

Erik froze, unable to respond, when a slap on the back brought him to his senses. He looked deep into her face, looking for any sign that she was feeling something other than absolute delight in apparently being reacquainted with an old friend.

"You old dog," Ambrose laughed. "Why didn't you tell me you knew Mlle. Daaé?"

"I…I wasn't sure it was really you," Erik stammered to Christine, knowing how inane his response was. At last, he remembered his manners. He took her hand and brushed her knuckles with a light, chaste kiss. If she could tolerate him, could behave as if they were old friends, then so could he. In fact, his reserve was beginning to melt and his admiration for her grew as she allowed him the dignity of being treated as an equal, as an old and favored acquaintance, in front of Ambrose.

"So, you knew each other in France?" Ambrose asked, unabashedly curious at the spectacle of the normally imperturbable Erik Duquesne being brought to his proverbial knees by this little lady.

"Yes," Christine answered, her English quite good. There was a short pause, then she said, "Erik was my voice teacher."

Ambrose gulped down a swallow of champagne from his glass. "Voice teacher?" He turned to Erik. "Business man, accountant, philanthropist, musician, and now, music teacher? Do you have other hidden talents?"

Erik blushed, embarrassed at being the topic of conversation. "I am not without…other skills," he offered. He turned to Christine. "I…I was not sure if you would welcome seeing me again." He glanced over at Ambrose. "We…" He paused, unsure how to explain the matter.

"We didn't always get along is what he's trying to say," Christine volunteered. "As teacher and pupil, our relationship was sometimes rocky. I am sorry to say that when we parted, it was not under the most pleasant of circumstances."

"You are most gracious," Erik said, and he meant it.

"Meeting you again is unexpected, but not unpleasant," she said to him, this time gracing him with a smile that looked more heartfelt and promised much more than mere politeness. She scanned the room, noting the others waiting for a moment of her time. "I should mingle with my guests," she said with a playful groan. "After all, it is because of them that I am here in New York."

Erik nodded courteously. "But, of course."

"I do hope that while I am here, we shall meet again. Perhaps work over some of those past difficulties?" she asked hopefully.

"If that is what you wish," he almost whispered, unable to believe his ears.

"Yes, that is what I wish," she said and, wishing them both a good evening, returned to her other guests.

-0-0-0-

The next morning, Erik sat in the parlor reading the newspaper. He had no memory of coming home last night, of going to bed. Everything was a blur of excitement and trepidation. Christine had actually expressed an interest in resuming their relationship. His pulse was still racing, and he tried to calm himself by focusing on the review of last night's performance.

"_The artists were all warmly received; Mlle. Daaé and Mme. Scalchi and Signor Campanini particularly. In the second act, Mme. Scalchi was presented with six large baskets of flowers. Signor Campanini a painted banneret, a painting on an easel of flowers, and numerous floral baskets and bouquets. Among the many tributes to Mlle. Daaé was a chaplet of leaves of gold contained in a crimson velvet case. She had just finished the 'Jewel Song' and the applause was deafening."_

"Mr. D.?"

Erik glanced at the doorway as Mrs. Flynn entered the room, an envelope in her hand. "Yes, what is it?"

"Sorry to interrupt, but a boy just delivered this." She handed him an envelope. "Said it was to be given to you right away."

"Is he waiting for a reply?"

"No. He dashed off immediately after reciting those instructions."

Erik opened the envelope, thinking it might be from Christine, curious as to how she'd learned his address, and read the enclosed note. His face blanched as he crumpled the paper and threw it violently into the fireplace.

"Is something wrong?" Mrs. Flynn asked.

"Yes. Everything." He stared at the fireplace, wondering what was to be next.

-0-0-0-


	15. Second Chance, part 1

**Author's Note: **Chapter 15 turned out to be quite long, so I've split it into two parts. I'm posting part one today, and will probably post part 2 on Thursday. Many, many thanks to all my kind reviewers, and to my beta extraordinaire, Lizzy, who has helped me so much with writing this story. Her contributions are far too many to list here. Let it suffice to say that her contributions make all my stories better!

* * *

The Way to Love  
Chapter 15  
**Second Chance – part one**

Erik, with his thoughts unsettled, headed to the infirmary, the letter's words repeating themselves over and over in his mind.

_I have been seeking you for many years. Now that I have found you, I am hoping that we can work over our past differences._

A knot form in the pit of his stomach as he recognized them as the same words Christine spoke to him the night before -- but it wasn't she who had sent the note. An inspection of the paper showed it to be expensive vellum, but little else. The sender's identity, however, was obvious when Erik saw the wax seal bearing the imprint of a scorpion. Rahzoul!

So, the old Daroga had been at the Opera, watching him. What else had his old foe been up to these past months? Erik ran his fingers through his hair. It had been wishful thinking to imagine that, after sending the bronze figurines, Rahzoul would have considered his point made and left matters at that. Erik laughed at himself as he considered the irony of the situation – first Christine and now Rahzoul. Was anyone else from his past going to show up?

He inhaled deeply, then slowly let his breath out. What he needed was a plan, but it had to be something he could do on his own. He would not allow Ambrose to be drawn into this mess, or anyone else for that matter. Knowledge of Rahzoul and what the Daroga was capable of doing would only endanger the others. No, the fewer who knew, the safer all would be. Or so Erik hoped.

Once at the infirmary, Erik headed straight to his office. He looked out the window and wondered if Rahzoul was even now watching him. The last thing he wanted was to let his adversary see him rattled, and so Erik forced himself to resume his usual morning routine. He visited the kitchen, checking food stores and making a list for the grocers. Then it was on to the dining room, visiting the two score people who were there for a warm meal, making small talk, assuring himself that all was running smoothly. Those tasks completed, he went to the ward where he visited the patients and checked the medical supplies. After placing orders for the needed supplies, he retired to his office where he would catch up on paperwork. Engrossed in the papers scattered atop his desk, he never heard the door open.

"You're a hard man to track down, Erik Duquesne."

He looked up, startled to find Christine standing before him. He immediately rose from his chair and offered her a seat. "Apparently not hard enough," he said, attempting a light tone to hide his own nervousness. "You found me."

"No thanks to you," she chided gently. "You never gave me your card last night, nor told me your address. Nobody seemed to know who you were, and I ended having to ask about your friend, Mr. Rice."

"I apologize for the oversight. It's only that I wasn't sure you were serious about what you said last night," Erik said. "About seeing me, that is. I thought...I thought you were merely being polite."

A small frown creased her forehead. "I worried terribly when you left."

"Last night? Why would you worry about that?"

"No, not last night. Two years ago. When I read the letter you left in my dressing room, I felt as though my world had come crashing down upon me. You have no idea how many tears I shed, crying over your leaving. I…I kept your letter." She opened her handbag and withdrew the paper and showed it to him.

He thought she might have been being playful or coy, but one look at the sincerity of her expression dispelled such notions. "You…you kept it all this time?" he asked, amazed.

"I did not realize how much I cared for you, depended upon you, until you were gone."

Erik rose from his chair and started pacing the floor. Before he could stop himself, he found himself blurting out, "As I recall, I filled you with fear and loathing. Isn't that what you told your fiancé, the Vicomte de Chagny? Where is he, by the way? I'm surprised he permits you to call upon strange men without a chaperone."

As quickly as it had come, the anger drained away, leaving Erik embarrassed. He shook his head in disgust, appalled by ill-mannered behavior. Here he was being given a second chance, and what did he do?

Christine lowered her head slightly, blinking away tears. "I don't blame you for being angry with me," she said softly. "I...I didn't behave very well myself – back then." She looked back up at him and offered Erik a tentative smile. "My only excuse is that I was young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Your protestations of love confused me and, yes, frightened me."

"No, Christine," he said sadly, resuming his seat. "You owe me no apology. Any fault lies with me. I...I'm sorry for having snapped at you. That was quite boorish and completely uncalled for."

The tense moments had passed, and at those words, Christine's face grew brighter. "You truly have changed, haven't you?"

"Wha-what do you mean?"

"The Erik I knew in Paris would never have made such an admission."

"And you have changed, too, Christine."

"I like to think that I've matured in two years' time." She paused as a thought came to mind. "I was wondering – do you suppose it possible for two people who botched things up so terribly in the past to have a second chance? That they could try again...to be friends? Perhaps, eventually, become more than friends?"

Erik frowned. "What about your husband? Don't you think he should have something to say in this matter?"

"You keep referring to my husband, but I assure you I have none. If you're referring to Raoul, we never married."

"I thought…." He stopped. "Forgive my assumption. It's only…"

"Yes, I can imagine what you must have thought all this time, after what Raoul and I said to each other, but…things changed after you left."

She said nothing more on the matter, and though he desperately wanted to know what had happened between the two of them, he knew it would be wrong to pry. He would not push, would not press the matter. If she wanted him to know more, she would tell him...when she was ready.

She glanced around at his office. "I was wondering, do you suppose we could go someplace else to talk? Someplace less business-like, more comfortable? A walk, perhaps?"

"If I am not being too presumptuous, may I invite you to see my new house?" He saw the look of dismay and surprise on her face and could guess at what she must have been thinking. "We could, if you'd like, have lunch there," Erik offered, hope springing in his heart once again. Perhaps he hadn't ruined his second chance after all.

"You have a house? Is it...far from the Opera?"

"Not very, only a couple of miles. It's a relatively short walk from the infirmary, too." He beamed proudly, now eager to show off his new home. "It's comfortable…and above ground," he added, unable to resist a little wink. "But since it is rather cool outside, I think it would be better if we took a cab."

"A cab? Then it's...not...not underneath the Opera?"

"Good heavens, no! Where would you ever get such an idea?"

"Well, I...oh, never mind. Yes, Erik," she said, standing up and daring to loop her arm through his. "I would love to see your new home."

-0-0-0-

At the house, Erik introduced Christine to Mrs. Flynn. Wolf also demanded an introduction, and immediately made friends, while Seamus watched with faraway detachment.

"You have a regular menagerie here," she laughed as Wolf nuzzled her hand, insisting that she continue scratching him behind the ears.

"I'm afraid I had little to do with it. The animals adopted me, rather than the other way around."

"You've truly become domesticated."

The three of them continued their tour – Erik, Christine and Wolf – and ended up in the music room.

"Oh, Erik!" she exclaimed, looking at the twilight-blue ceiling with its golden stars. "This is the most beautiful room in the house." She sat at the baby grand piano that stood in the middle of the room and tested the keys, inviting Erik to sit next to her. She placed her fingers on the keys and tentatively played a few notes, then paused, waiting for Erik to join her.

"A duet?" she suggested hopefully.

"A duet," he agreed.

They played, and Erik caught his breath when her fingers brushed against his. He stopped playing, and she did, too. They turned towards one another, their knees touching slightly. She leaned forward, her eyes closed. Erik saw her lips, lips that were ripe for kissing, lips that were begging to be tasted. His thoughts went to when they had first known each other. Back then, she had begun showing signs of responding to his overtures, had shown that spark of incipient love.

But then there had been was that fateful afternoon when, in her youthful innocence and curiosity, she'd torn away his mask, exposing his ugliness, and his world had spiraled out of control. He'd railed at her, threatened her, as a black madness came over him – a madness that had driven her away and into de Chagny's arms.

Now fate, or kismet, or plain dumb luck had brought them back together. He'd changed over these past two years, and even in the short time they'd been together here in New York, he could see that she had, too. They had both matured and they were ready to take a second try at love. He reached out and placed his hand upon her cheek. He bent closer, dying to kiss her lips, when...

_MREOW!!_

A large bundle of fur jumped onto the keyboard and into Erik's lap. Seamus mewed again, only softer this time, as he curled up and claimed possession of the master of the house. Erik glared at the feline while Christine couldn't stop laughing.

"And here I thought I was through with chaperones," she said when she was finally able to catch her breath.

"Mangy, flea-bitten beast," Erik grumbled, angry at the cat for having broken the mood. He picked up Seamus, making a face when he saw all the fur on his trousers.

Christine reached out and took Seamus in her arms, hugging and petting the one-eyed cat. "No, let him stay. I think he's adorable," she said.

"You would."

"I think he's trying to tell us that there will be no more music lessons today," she said as Seamus made himself at home in the folds of her skirt, where he purred contentedly. "So, what were we talking about?"

Erik made a face at the cat. "I'll deal with you later." To Christine, he said, "I believe you were going to tell me the goings on at the Garnier these past couple of years."

"Since O. G. left, things have been quiet," she said. "The management has been quite happy since they discovered that were no more 'requests' for 20,000 francs each month."

"I imagine they are," Erik said softly under his breath. "And the others?"

"Mme. Giry, the box keeper, passed away peacefully in her sleep last year."

"She was a good woman, if a little slow."

Christine ignored his last comment. "She was alone when she died. The authorities surmised that she must have had a heart attack after taking a nightcap, as she was found sitting in her chair by the fireplace, her partially empty glass of sherry still on the table next to her."

"I hope they didn't bury her in that faded black taffeta dress she always wore," he mumbled.

"Really, Erik. We mustn't speak ill of the dead. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Do you remember her daughter, Meg?"

"How could I forget? Her mother kept insisting the girl would someday be Empress of France."

"Well, she's not an empress, but she is a baroness -- the Baroness Castelo-Barbezac."

"Impressive. Anything else?"

"There was that accident with Joseph Buquet."

"What about Buquet? Last time I saw him, he was passed out in one of the corridors."

"I'm afraid he met with a rather unfortunate end. He went down to one of the storage cellars, apparently in search of a piece of scenery. He must have been climbing over set pieces and such as he was looking. No one knows for sure, because he was alone, but he was found later, hanged to death. It was all a terrible accident. Mme. Buquet was beside herself with grief."

"He was married? If that's the case, I suppose there is hope for all of us."

She arched her eyebrows at him. "Yes, and the day of the funeral, Mme Buquet stormed into the managers' office and accused them of harboring a ghost. She said the ghost hated her husband and had threatened him many times in the past. It was all quite pitiable." She looked at Erik. "You...uh, didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"

"How could I have, unless you believe I possess supernatural powers that permit me to attack a drunken scene changer from across the ocean?"

"I believe you have the power to seduce me with your voice," she said, her own voice low and husky as she stole furtive glances at his face.

He noticed this, too. "Is there something wrong with my face? Other than the obvious, I mean. Have I sprouted an extra eye in the middle of my forehead?"

Christine laughed at being caught. "No, it's only that I've been sitting here, trying to think what it is about you that looks different, and I only now realized that it's your mask. It only covers half your face."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I'm sorry. I only meant that...you look much less intimidating. It's so pleasant to be able to see if you're smiling or frowning." Changing the subject, she asked what he did in New York.

He told her about the infirmary, how upon arriving in the city, he soon found himself lost and how Ambrose Rice came to his rescue, offering him a roof over his head until he got his situation straightened out. He didn't tell Christine about the beating – no sense in upsetting her unnecessarily. Since then, he explained, he had gotten his finances in order, and made some modest investments.

"I donate several days a week to helping out at the infirmary." He saw the look of surprise and admiration on her face. "They're good people. They deserve a chance."

Now it was Erik's turn to ask Christine a few questions. They had progressed far enough that he felt it safe to inquire about the vicomte. "You said earlier that you and de Chagny never married. May I ask why?"

"After you left, everything changed. I suddenly had to grow up. Yes, Erik, I know I was very immature, and your temper didn't make things any easier for me."

"I know, and for that I apologize. I should never have made such demands upon you."

She waved his protestations aside as if they were nothing. "It's over now. When Raoul pressed me about marriage, I knew I couldn't go through with it. Not then, at any rate. Perhaps, deep down, I knew I wasn't ready to make such a commitment. In any event, Raoul had orders to sail on the _Requin_ and left for the Arctic shortly after your departure. Before he shipped out, we both agreed not to hold the other to any commitment or promise, that when he returned, we'd talk again and see if our feelings for each other were still true. After that, I concentrated on my career."

She looked down at his hands and for the first time noticed the ring. "Oh!" she gasped in a whispered voice. "I never knew what happened to it."

"You lost it on the rooftop."

"Then…you were up there…that night. I always suspected as much." Her expression softened, and her eyes sparkled as tears tried to form. "And you've kept it all this time?"

"I know this probably sounds foolish, but having it made me feel closer to you…as if we were somehow connected."

"Erik, that's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me."

They spent the rest of the afternoon together, playing the piano, singing, and generally getting to know each other all over again. Later, they strolled arm-in-arm as they walked her back to her hotel, Erik basking in her smile, hanging on her every word. Strangers passing them on the street saw a couple obviously happy in each other's company.

At last, they arrived at the Grand Central Hotel, where she was staying while in New York. They stopped in the foyer before parting company for the day. "There will be another performance of Faust this weekend. I hope you will be able to attend?" she asked hopefully.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he said enthusiastically.

"Wild horses?"

"One of Ambrose's colorful phrases," he explained.

"And afterwards, you must come back to my dressing room and take me to supper."

He bowed politely, taking her hand in his and kissing it. "As my diva commands."

-0-0-0-


	16. Second Chance, part 2

**Author's Note: **You're such a swell group of readers, here's part 2 a little bit ahead of schedule. HD

* * *

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 15  
Second Chance – part two**

The second performance of _Faust _went much more smoothly than opening night's. Orchestra and singers both had a better understanding of the acoustics in the new auditorium and adjusted their performances accordingly. When, in Act V, Marguerite sang her prayer, pleading for the pure and radiant angels to protect her, her eyes traveled to box five and lighted upon her own angel. At that moment, Erik felt he could have died a happy man.

While curtain calls were still being made, he slipped out of his seat and discreetly made his way to Christine's dressing room where he waited for her. Later, after the crowd had dispersed, the two of them left the building.

A light rain was falling and Erik hailed a hansom to take them back to her hotel. Exiting the cab, they walked quickly through the drizzle and into the foyer. Erik paused to say goodnight, but she walked ahead of him, turning when she realized he had stopped following her. She extended her hand in a silent invitation for him to come to her suite with her.

"Christine," he murmured. "Is this really happening, or is it a dream?"

"Don't keep me waiting," she whispered. She ascended the stairs, lingering on the landing to be sure he would follow.

Erik halted. How many times had he dreamt this very scene? He looked about, feeling a slight, tingling sensation of _déjà vu_. Shaking it off, he took the steps two at a time and arrived in the doorway of her suite slightly breathless, unsure whether to continue following her. He peered uncertainly inside the room, the glow from the streetlamps below casting weird shadows.

"Erik," she said. "Won't you come in?"

It was useless to resist. He would follow her voice anywhere, do anything she asked. Always, he was at her service. He closed the door behind him and turned the key.

Christine's suite was sumptuous, appropriately ornate for a diva of world renown. Erik tossed his opera cape and hat over the arm of a hall tree, and followed her into the parlor. A fire had been lit, and a small table beside it had been set with a light supper.

She smiled shyly at him before speaking. The light rain had penetrated her cape and dampened her gown, which clung to her curves.

"There's something that has been weighing heavily on my mind. I...I know we've spoken of it briefly, but I really must tell you how I have agonized over the circumstances that led to your leaving Paris. I can't apologize enough for what I did, Erik. I don't know what possessed me to tear off your mask! I thought—I honestly thought—that you wore the mask to hide your true identity, that you were a famous teacher who didn't want to be known. I...I thought it was an elaborate but harmless game. If I could change anything, it would be...what I did that night."

He hesitated at her overture, unresolved feelings he'd thought he was over boiled to the surface once more. "That night? Christine, if it had only been that night, I could have pretended it never happened. But I heard you! I heard you speaking to him about…what you saw. About me! I heard you tell him that I horrified you, terrified you, held you in some sort of bondage—"

"Not bondage! It was...it was love of the most exquisite kind. I know that now."

"You think you no longer fear my face? What was it you called it? Oh yes," he continued sarcastically. "I believe your words were, 'Horror, horror, horror.' Or was there more?"

He was surprised she didn't shrink from him. Instead, she appeared truly remorseful. "Oh, my poor, sad Erik. What have I done?"

He walked out to the balcony, hoping for moment alone to compose himself.

Christine followed silently. Trembling, she dared to touch his back with her fingertips, and when he didn't resist her touch, she slid her arms around him from behind and pulled herself against him. He stood stiffly at first, but then he covered her small hands with his and rested his chin on his chest as he gathered his thoughts.

"You do realize, don't you, that it wasn't your appearance that frightened me," she said. "It was your outburst. For a moment, I thought you didn't even recognize me. I thought I knew how ferocious you could be when angry, but I had never seen you act like that."

He winced, recalling how she had recoiled from him. He shrank away from her, but she held him tighter.

Desperate to prove her case, her voice cracked as she spoke. "You grabbed my wrist – do you remember? Look, Erik. If you look closely, you can still see tiny little crescent-shaped scars where your nails dug into my skin. I thought...I thought you were going to hurt me."

He twisted out of her arms, dropping to one knee before her as he looked at the marks. Softly, slowly, he brought her wrist to his twisted lips and ever so carefully kissed each one of the pale scars. "I should die for having caused you pain."

The tension between them broke, and she mood turned more playful. She laughed, a small musical sound, and this time spoke of their late unpleasantness as if it had been little more than a silly misunderstanding. "In fact, I actually injured myself, by wrenching away from you. As I recall, you were throwing me out of your house, and I didn't want to go while you were so angry with me. Don't look at me that way! You know you wanted me to leave – immediately, and without so much as a fond farewell."

She held his face in her hands and continued, saying, "I am so sorry, Erik. Can you ever forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive. I am the one who should grovel for your pardon." He bent low, and took the hem of her gown between his fingertips. He brought it to his lips and closed his eyes as he touched it to his mask. His shoulders shook as he turned his face away from her.

"You're weeping," Christine murmured. She smoothed his hair with her hand, letting it linger longer than necessary at the nape of his neck.

He nodded and leaned against the parapet, hiding his face from her, hiding his shame. In the moon glow, he feared she would detect what harsh light could not reveal. He loved her still. No matter how urbane and sophisticated he appeared, he was vulnerable.

As if reading his mind, she promised, "I won't make the same mistake twice." She knelt in front of him, and as she reached out to touch his shoulder, she saw him flinch. She paused, pondering what she should do.

He watched as an idea glimmered in her mind. She took the feathered boa that complemented her gown and pretended to tie her own hands with it. The rustle of satin and feathers made him chuckle.

"If you're going to do it," he said somewhat shakily, "at least do it right." He took the boa and wrapped it around her wrists in a loose figure eight. "Now you are my prisoner," he teased, in a bold attempt to lighten the mood.

She beamed, her smile radiant in the moonlight. "I rather like being your prisoner," she joked.

"You like that?" he asked, his voice little more than a sensual purr. Erik's eyes widened with mischief as he considered the possibilities. He plucked a feather from the boa and brushed it across her lips. She bit playfully at his hand, but he pulled away before she could latch on. He brushed the feather across her throat, over her white shoulder, and down her arm, taking delight in the tiny bumps rising on her skin as she shivered with anticipation.

"Are you cold?" he asked. He helped her to her feet, her hands still bound. She shook her head and gazed into his eyes intently.

_She's trying to tell me something_.

"Perhaps I should be going."

She shook her head, and inched closer to him.

"Let's go inside. It is warmer by the fire."

She shook her head, and spoke quietly. "I'm not the slightest bit cold."

"Oh," he said, his voice filled with awe and wonder – and puzzlement. He wondered if he should offer her his jacket.

She nestled against him, tucking her head under his chin. He held his arms far away from her, uncertain of what he should do.

"I'd be ever so much warmer if you would hold me," she whispered.

Erik stepped away from her. He shook his head. "God, Christine! Ask me anything – anything – but that. I must leave. I must leave now, and never return!" He started for the door, but she called to him, her voice like a siren's song. He was bound by its spell, but nothing prepared him for what she said next.

"If you do, I will die."

He paused, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"How shall I ever eat again, with my hands tied?" She feigned a most attractive pout, tossing her head in the direction of the midnight supper that had been prepared for them. "Kind sir," she said, holding out her hands, "Would you be good enough to help a lady in distress?"

"Anything," he said, and he meant it.

Freed from her bonds, Christine turned the gaslight low and lit the candles on the table. Other than polite conversation, they dined in near silence before moving to the sofa to sip Tokay wine in front of the fire. The warm glow of the firelight, reflecting off the surface of the ivory satin of her gown, made her radiant. She had never looked more angelic as she gestured for him to sit beside her, and he sank like a stone on the plush cushions. She leaned ever so slightly on his shoulder as she slipped off her shoes. She tucked her feet underneath herself, and Erik watched, mesmerized, as she settled next to him.

"How I have longed for this moment," she sighed.

He cleared his throat. "What?" he asked nervously.

"Erik, look at me." She touched his chin and turned his head to face her, and let her eyes drift slowly across his features. She gazed at him, lingering on his mouth, his eyes, his hair. He leaned into her hand and closed his eyes tightly as she cupped his face in her palm, unable to resist the warmth of human contact, the forbidden pleasure of her touch. "I thought I'd die when you left me," she whispered, kissing his temple, his cheek, his lips.

He leaned away from her, holding her at arm's length. "Don't," he said quietly. His heart was breaking all over again, only this time, she could see him falling apart before her very eyes.

_This will not do. I will not let her see me like this! I will not let her see...not let her...oh, Christine._

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run from her, but he could not force himself to leave her again. He prayed she would come to her senses and stop this madness before what little reserve he had crumbled completely away.

He was powerless to stop her as she lifted the edges of his mask. He was petrified by fear and longing, and by the allure of being so close to her that he could feel her breath on his bare skin.

_Go on. Get it over with once and for all. This will be the death of me._

She hesitated but a moment before removing it completely. He remained perfectly still as she scanned the hideous scars, turned to stone when she touched his mangled flesh. Suddenly and surely, she pulled him against her with all her might, clutching at his shoulders, his neck. And then she opened herself to him, kissing him as a woman kisses a lover.

He held his hands firmly at his side, not sure what to do. He gave her every chance to come to her senses and make an escape, but then she made the most incredible sigh he had ever heard, and he realized, beyond all reason, beyond all hope, that she wanted him.

"Christine, what are you doing?" he gasped.

Through half-closed eyes, she gazed at him, flushed with desire and hot to the touch. "What I should have done long ago," she said.

She led him into her boudoir. "Why are you looking at me so strangely? I told you I was not a child any longer, that I knew what I was doing." She sat on the bed and cocked her head to the side, puzzled by his apparent reluctance.

"I...I didn't think this was what you meant," he said, unable to take his eyes off her bed. The sheets were turned down. Candles were lit, and petals were scattered across the pillows.

_Could she have been planning this?_

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," she said stiffly. "Did you expect me to wait forever? I had no idea where you went, or if you were even still alive! I was lost without you."

Erik realized what she was implying, and he didn't like it one iota. "De Chagny! He took advantage of you! I'll kill him," he roared.

She jumped to her feet. "Don't be angry with Raoul. Nobody took advantage of anyone! We both wanted to…to…you know."

He scoffed, running his hand through his hair as he looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time.

"He was leaving for the Arctic Circle," she explained. "God alone knew if we would ever see each other again. I'd already lost you..."

"I don't want to hear this," he said bitterly.

"And I don't want to think about you in another woman's arms. There has been another woman, hasn't there? I could feel it in the way you kissed me. I've seen the way women look at you. I'm not an idiot. I can see now that women would find you attractive."

"More than one," he sneered, cutting her to the quick.

She was visibly shaken, and this time it was her turn to head for the balcony for fresh air. She leaned on the parapet and stared blankly at the city below, at the streetlights, at the stars – looking anywhere but at him. The uncomfortable silence grew thick in the night air.

Erik was angry, defensive, stiff-backed.

Christine was hurt and confused, her emotions raw. Finally, she sighed. "Do you think we will ever move beyond hurting each other, past taking out all of our frustrations on each other?"

Erik shuddered, knowing how cruel he could be if he wanted to make her cry...if he wanted to hurt her…if he didn't love her so terribly. "This is inexcusable of me. I have no right—"

"Nonsense. You have every right. But, if we are to be together, we must move on."

He nodded slowly. "I was young – younger than you are now – when I was employed by the Khanum in Persia. In reward for a particularly delicate task that I had performed, she sent a special type of payment – a very personal payment. You see, I had indulged in one of the East's more unsavory vices prior to their arrival. I was in no shape to receive visitors." He shook his head, remembering the night, remembering the sickly sweet smell of burning opium clouding the air as well as his judgment.

"They…took advantage of you?" she asked, almost hopefully.

"No," he said, turning an unhealthy shade of red. "I can't say that they took advantage of me. Or, if they did, I certainly didn't object. The truth is that wasn't the only night I received those…visits."

"You must have pleased the Khanum very much," Christine said tersely.

As always, his pride was his undoing. "I am very thorough in my work."

She swallowed hard. "These 'visitors' you mentioned. Were they slave girls? Oh, don't look surprised. I've heard of these women before."

"It's different in the East. Physical pleasure is simply another form of commerce to some, while to others, it is an art form. My visitors were highly skilled, trained to give pleasure in every way possible. I dare say, at the risk of offending you, they excelled at their jobs in the same way that I excelled at mine."

"In that case, I must be quite a disappointment to you. What have I to offer?"

He took her hand as gently as possible, and brought it to his lips. "You are the world to me. Those women are a fleeting memory. They performed a service, in the same way they would have polished the silver or laundered the linens for me."

She remained unconvinced, and broke away from him. "Do all your servants provide such intimate service?"

He winced, struggling to find a way to explain this. "You know...what I am. You've seen my face. Imagine...imagine being so hideous that your own mother avoided being in the same room with you, that she couldn't bear the sight of you. Imagine, if you can, going your entire life without knowing the warmth of a human touch! Imagine being called a freak and being shunned over and over again. Imagine being so...so desperate to…to love and to be loved that any touch would be welcome. Any touch at all..."

Christine turned to him. Erik had literally folded in on himself, bent over with the pain of this revelation. He gripped the parapet so hard that his knuckles turned as white as his face. His shoulders shook as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. His confession had cost him dearly, but she knew she must not pity him. He would hate her for it. She rested her hand on the ledge next to his, and rubbed the edge of her little finger along the simple gold band he wore on his own, the very same gold band that signified their bond, and his pledge to her in the undergrounds of the Palais Garnier.

He glanced her way, desperate for her to believe him. "You are the only woman I have ever loved."

"I know," she whispered.

"Then believe me when I say, I may have experienced the 'joys of the flesh' but I have never made love to a woman."

Suddenly, she was in his arms, holding him and touching his face, kissing the side of his neck. "Oh, Erik," she sighed. "Let us imagine, then, that there is no Persia, no Paris, no past. There are only the two of us, here and now." She cupped his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes. "We have waited long enough to find our happiness together."

Without another word, he swept her into his arms, and carried her back to the bed.

"Let there be no misunderstanding," she said softly, her words carrying like a melody on the night air, "I am not a child." She pulled him down onto the bed. "I am not playing games with you." She tugged off his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. "And I most certainly know what I am doing. Now, do be a gentleman and help me get out of this gown."

He fumbled with endless rows of buttons and with a myriad of snaps and hooks, stealing tiny kisses across her shoulders and down her back as she was revealed to him in all her glory. No longer a shy and vulnerable waif, Christine had blossomed into a real woman, and he thanked whatever gods were looking after him for this blessing as he quickly shed his outer clothes. He laughed wholeheartedly when she tore his shirt in her haste to assist him out of it. In the darkness, they lay on the bed and held each other – naked, vulnerable, yet never safer.

He was no stranger to a woman's arms, but with Christine, making love was new and different. He felt like a novice, moving awkwardly, afraid he would not please her; but he was a quick student in everything and making love to her was no different. He listened to her sighs and whimpers, and learned what she needed. Her ragged breath, her languid eyes, and the way she pushed herself against him told him what he needed to do to please her.

She trailed kisses across his chest, nipping at his shoulder before grasping the center of his being, and when he moaned, she beamed.

"You love me," she said over and over again. "You love me."

"I can't help myself," he whispered. "I never stopped loving you." He brushed away her tears with his thumbs. "I'll love you as long as I live, Christine Daaé."

"And I love you, Erik Duquesne," she sniffled, fresh tears threatening to overflow. "I think I've always loved you. I was too foolish to realize it until it was too late."

He rocked her in his arms, wanting her so badly he ached. "Shhhh. No more tears," he said, kissing her cheeks. "No more sadness." He kissed her neck, paying close attention to the spot that made her wriggle against him. Gazing at her beauty, he asked, "You could have anyone. Why do you choose to be with me?"

She shook her head, smiling enigmatically, and lay down beside him. She tangled her fingertips in his hair, and smiled. "Because you make me feel like I am the only woman in the world."

"You mean to say that there are others?" he said in mock astonishment, dodging her playful slap.

"Precisely. As far as you are concerned, there are no other women," she said possessively. "And don't you forget it."

He took his time loving her, exploring every part of her as though he might never have this chance again. His secret fantasies had suddenly materialized in his arms, and hearing her cry his name became more precious to him than any aria she had ever sung. When at last she couldn't wait any longer to have him belong completely to her, he entered her slowly, making the moment last as long as possible. "Christine," he murmured wonderingly. "My Christine."

Waves of pleasure rippled through her, and she drew him farther inside herself, wrapping him in her love. She held him tightly as the first climax subsided, and he slowed the tempo as she looked deep into his eyes. They were past the mutual pain they had once caused each other. Tonight, there was only the two of them, sharing their love.

A sense of peace and well being swept through him, and he felt fulfilled. They collapsed on the bed joyfully, grinning at each other, already beginning the flirtation that would lead to making love again…and again. He nestled her in his embrace, and she kissed him all over with giddy little kisses, looking for a ticklish spot. It was torture of the most delectable kind.

"I had no idea it could be like that," she said appreciatively, stroking his inner thigh as she spoke. "Will it always be that way?"

"If you keep doing that, we'll find out soon enough." He tightened his arms around her, relishing the feel of her.

"Erik?" she asked. "Are you happy?"

"I've never been happier," he said, nuzzling her throat. "Isn't it obvious? I have just made love to the only woman in the world, and she has told me that she loves me. I can't imagine greater happiness."

"Nor can I."

She fell asleep in his arms, and he watched her for an hour before realizing that he must leave before the hotel staff began to stir. It would never do to have her come so far to achieve stardom, only to have her reputation tarnished by the likes of him.

Silently, he slipped from her bed and dressed. He made sure that there was no evidence that he and Christine had been intimate, and put the leather case in his pocket with a satisfied grin. He gazed at her sleeping form, and remembered what Miranda had said to him about the way to love. He selected one perfect rose from the vase on her dressing table, removed all the thorns, and laid it over a note he wrote on hotel stationery. It said simply, _I love you. E._

Unable to hail a cab so early in the morning, he walked all the way back to his house. Wolf, who had been lurking in an alley close to the hotel, was close on his heels. For once in his life, Erik felt optimistic about the future.

_Christine loves me_, he thought over and over. He twisted the gold band on his little finger, and relived every moment of last evening. _This is what happiness is like_.

The early editions of the newspapers were already on the street and Erik stopped to pick up a copy, hoping to read a review of the second performance of _Faust_. Instead of a review, however, it was the front-page headline that grabbed his attention.

_French Ship Sails into New York Harbor After Heroic Arctic Mission_

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the landscape around him spinning for a moment. The _Requin_? He looked at the article again. Yes, there was the ship's name, and there was another name, too – Captain Raoul de Chagny.

_The man's a hero_, Erik thought sarcastically, _and now he's come to claim his bride_.

-0-0-0-


	17. Danger

**Author's Note: **To all my readers, I have some serious egg on my face. I have unwittingly failed to acknowledge the help and collaboration of my good friend, Lizzy, who aided in writing several significant scenes, including a large portion of the second half of chapter 15 as well as doing significant work on this chapter. Thanks, Lizzy, and my sincere apologies for failing to mention this sooner. I'm sooo sorry. It won't happen again. -HDK

**

* * *

**

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 16  
Danger**

In spite of the newspaper article, the memory of Christine in his arms put a spring in Erik's steps as he quickly walked home. This had been the best day of his life, and he would be damned if he would let that 'boy' ruin it for him. He and Christine were starting over, this time not as a student and her devoted teacher, but as a loving couple. He walked so quickly that Wolf broke into a trot and loped easily beside him. By the time they walked through the front door, they were both hot and thirsty. They headed for the kitchen for a cool drink of water.

The cook and one of the chambermaids had apparently come downstairs for a late night snack. Erik hesitated, reluctant to interact with the women, but Wolf slipped quietly past them and began lapping up water from his porcelain bowl.

"Land sakes!" said Eliza, the cook and the older, more worldly-wise of the two. "If that don't beat all. That dog will be the death of me, I swan. He's always skulking about like a wild beast, sneaking up behind me."

"Oh, quit complaining," said Kathleen, taking a nibble from the plate of cookies in her lap. "You know you love him. He's a good watchdog. Besides, what would the master do without him?"

Erik had never been able to relax around the hired help. They made him anxious in their earnestness with their eagerness to serve him. He knew by now that he overpaid them, and trusted that his generosity would afford him their loyalty, but he tried to avoid them whenever possible. All except Mrs. Flynn, that is. It was impossible to dodge her. All of his instructions to the staff were made through her.

He lingered in the butler's pantry between the dining room and the kitchen door, waiting for his dog. He would get his own drink of water upstairs, from the carafe by his bedside.

"Tell me about that new man of yours," Eliza asked, changing the subject. "I hear it's gettin' serious between you two."

"Oh, yes!" Kathleen said with a sigh, twirling an auburn curl in her fingers. She put the cookie on the rim of her plate, and raised a hand to her cheek. "He's a real gentleman, he is. He's valet to an ambassador, you know. He says that one day, he will put an end to all my worries and I will go to live in paradise." She tittered maddeningly. "That's his way of sayin' he'll make an honest woman out of me. Clever, idn't he?"

Eliza choked on her milk. "Kathy! Don't tell me you've already let him in your knickers! You should know better. What is it that Mrs. Flynn is always telling you?" She made a dour face, the perfect imitation of the Irish head of household. "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" she intoned somberly. Both women cackled with laughter, slapping their knees with glee.

Erik shifted, drawing further into the shadows. Something Kathleen said, about living in paradise, didn't sound quite right. He looked around for Wolf, who was still in the kitchen.

_What's taking that damned dog so long?_

"Aw, he's much better than my last young man," Kathleen continued. "He's older, but he's got some experience behind him, if you know what I mean. Although," she said, showing Eliza a huge bruise on her neck, "he does tend to get a bit rough."

Eliza tsked over the marks on her friend's throat. "Even so, he'll be a step up the ladder. Your last young man was an apprentice groom, as I recall. I think I would like to meet this gentleman caller of yours," she said. "Does he have any friends?"

Kathleen peered at the cook as she stuffed the remainder of her cookie into her mouth. "Tell you what," she said, as crumbs tumbled down her bosom. "I'll ask him to come 'round next time the master's out of the house for a few hours. What he don't know won't hurt him. Besides, my man is always asking if I think the boss'd want a valet. That way, we could work together! He wants to see the house first, though. Wants to know what he's getting hisself into before he shows up with his hat in his hand."

Erik frowned, not liking the sound of this. The staff knew his rules. He should walk into the kitchen and lay down the law, but something held him back. Maybe it was simply overwhelming curiosity. Then again, maybe it was concern that something more serious was going on in his house, behind his back.

"Wouldn't do to go biting off more than he can chew," Eliza mumbled, as she took a huge chunk out of her teacake. "By the way, what's his name?"

"This is the best part!" Kathleen grinned from ear to ear. "He says I must call him 'Sir' since he is my better." Her high-pitched giggling was getting on Erik's nerves. "It's a game, don't you know, a game!"

"Well, you tell that 'Sir' of yours that he better have a name if he comes calling on Mr. D. He won't tolerate no game-playin' I'll warrant."

"You're right as rain, that you are, Eliza. Mr. D don't tolerate no never-you-mind, he don't."

"Are you sure he's a gentleman? Gentlemen don't leave marks like that on their girls."

"He is, I tell you!" Kathleen protested. "You're jealous, so ya are. You've heard about that gold watch he wears, and that jeweled fob of his. He's a man of means, he is, and you're jealous that you didn't get him first."

"I have no clue what you mean," Eliza sniffed. She stood up abruptly, her chair screeching across the tiled floor. Wolf bolted from the room.

"It's a golden scorpion, with eyes of diamonds and a ruby tip on its tail," Kathleen said. "If that's not class, I don't know what is."

Erik clenched his fists, and his chest tightened. He could hardly breathe as he withdrew from his hiding place unseen. Rahzoul!

_He says that one day, he will put an end to all my worries and I will go to live in paradise._

Erik understood what Rahzoul was saying, even if Kathleen did not. That was no promise of a life of leisure, but rather a pledge to kill her once her usefulness was over. No doubt, Rahzoul was laughing at what he saw as her foolish belief in him.

The enormity of what had been going on with his own staff struck him like a thunderbolt. Erik stumbled into the music room, where he played until the tips of his fingers cracked and bled, staining the ivory keys red. His music was a great, anguished cry – a paean that he knew would be unanswered by any god in heaven. Finally, he collapsed across the keyboard, while Wolf whined at his feet.

"Rahzoul," he whispered. "He is here."

Exhausted, he stumbled to his bed, and collapsed across the covers fully dressed. He fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, troubled by dreams of increasing intensity – dreams in which Christine was in danger, with a shadowy figure pursuing her, finally pouncing on her, and Erik always moments too late to help her.

-0-0-0-

Christine walked along the fashionable promenade of Fifth Avenue, where a host of new jewelry stores had recently opened. Erik followed her at a discreet distance, pulling his homburg low over his face, blending in with the crowd. She paused to take in a window display at Tiffany's, where a crowd of people gathered to see the famed Tiffany Diamond, a yellow rock weighing nearly 300 karats before it was cut and shaped.

He watched as her perfect lips formed a tiny bow, pursed in amusement at the murmuring crowd. _That's my girl_, he thought, as she walked briskly away. _She's not impressed with ostentation. _

He scowled as he realized another man was following her, far enough away that she was unaware of him, yet close enough to raise Erik's level of awareness. He was on the alert now, watching the man like a hawk. He hastened his step, bumping into pedestrians as he kept the stranger in his line of sight, studying the other man. His heart raced when the man reached into his pocket. Was that a glint of steel that he saw?

Christine turned the corner, and Erik fought a rising sense of panic as he lost sight of her. He broke into a trot, expecting to see her as he rounded the corner, expecting to find her smiling down on yet another window display, safe and sound, fresh and innocent. But she was nowhere to be seen – and neither was the man.

He groaned in his sleep as the dream became more vivid…

Erik looked down at his hands and feet. They seemed miles away from him, his limbs stretching out an impossible distance.

_A dark alley on the right – yes, check there. She could have stepped in there and the man might have gone right past her, minding his own business and no threat at all. It could all be a misunderstanding._

As he entered the alleyway, he was overwhelmed by the stench of fresh blood.

_Could it be that behind the façade of wealth and power on Fifth Avenue, there is a butcher's shop?_

He put a kerchief to his mouth and nose, and kept going. There was no noise back here away from the main street – no loud traffic, no clacking of shoes on pavement. There was only a low thumping, a rhythmic repetition that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A flurry of motion caught his attention. It was the stranger, behind a set of garbage bins, bent over Christine.

The man clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her terrified scream. Erik realized with horror that he was violating Christine in the worst way imaginable. He sprang forward to wrest the man away from her, but it was too late.

Before Erik could reach them, the steel rod in the man's hand flashed in the dim light. He cried out as it was thrust into Christine's throat, ripping into her fair skin. He watched, impotent to help her, as her life's blood poured down her fair skin and tainted her pale form a terrible crimson. The man turned towards Erik, grinning like a ghoul. His lips did not move, but Erik heard his voice in his head.

_You reap what you sow, magician._

Erik flung the covers aside and sat up on the side of the bed, holding his head in his hands, hyperventilating as he struggled to calm down. His heart hammered in his chest as one thought played over and over in his mind.

_He may haunt me till I'm dead, but I will never let him harm Christine._

-0-0-0-

In the light of day, rather than improving, the situation seemed even more dire. If Rahzoul were not a threat, there would be no subterfuge. The only possible reason the Persian could be hounding him was that the former daroga was up to no good, and the question remained as to whether Rahzoul was willing to hurt innocent people in order to get to Erik. He would have to do whatever was necessary to find Rahzoul, confront him, and put an end to the cat-and-mouse game.

He dressed as quickly as he could and hurried down the stairs while shrugging on his coat. He brushed past Mrs. Flynn on his way out the door.

"Mr. D! Going out so early? What about your breakfast?" She appeared flustered when he didn't even break stride.

"No time," he said over his shoulder. "Keep the doors and windows locked. Don't let anyone in without my permission. Anyone, do you understand me? Tell that to the rest of the help, too. And when I get back, you and I are having a talk."

"Wha—? Yes, sir." She nodded in mute acknowledgment, taken aback by his gruffness.

Satisfied, he flung back the door and ran down the steps, summoning a cab in short order. "To the park and hurry!"

He got out at Central Park and walked a circuitous path, hoping to shake off anyone following or watching him. He agonized over his decision to speak with Christine, to tell her that he would not be able to see her for a while. Their newfound happiness was so short-lived; he feared that she might be skeptical of his reasons for avoiding her. After all, what woman would make love to a man, and then not be offended if he no longer wanted to see her?

_Christine deserves better. She has always deserved a better man than I can be._

Deciding that no one was tailing him, he hailed another cab and headed to the Grand Central Hotel. He had the driver drop him off in the rear of the building and entered through a back door, unseen, and slipped past the hotel staff that was still delivering room service to the hotel guests. After double-checking to ensure that no one saw him, he knocked quietly at Christine's door. When there was no response, he withdrew a skeleton key from his pocket and let himself into her suite.

She was coming to the door when he entered. She was a vision of loveliness, wrapped in a blue satin dressing gown that matched the color of her eyes. "Erik? What a pleasant surprise." She glided across the room and into his arms.

He held her tightly, knowing that this might be the last chance he ever had to hold her.

She could sense something was wrong. "What's wrong, darling? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I must speak with you," he said impatiently.

"Sit down. Breakfast just arrived. We'll have coffee."

Erik grimaced at the thought of food. "Please listen to me. This is important."

She waited for him to hold her chair. "I'm listening."

He sat across from her and waited patiently as she poured the hot, black coffee.

"Parisian style," she said happily. "Exactly the way you like it."

"Christine, I…I must go away for a little while."

She stirred her coffee slowly. "Go on," she said dryly, her happy mood suddenly gone sour.

"Some old business has come up, and I must attend it immediately. I have no choice in the matter."

"I see."

Erik studied her.

_No, you really don't see. A madman is after me, and the only way I know to protect you is to get as far away from you as I can. _

"It's only for a little while."

"Does this have anything to do with your friend coming to town?"

Erik blinked, not comprehending. "My friend?"

"A few days ago, Mr. Kermanshahi came backstage and introduced himself to me. I admit, I was surprised. I didn't know you had any old friends, Erik," she said teasingly, trying to regain her earlier, cheerful disposition.

Erik downed a steaming cup of coffee in one gulp. "I don't. Please be careful, Christine. There are…bad men in the world. Men who would say anything to…to take you away from me."

She placed her hand on his wrist and patted it reassuringly. "If I listened to what other people said, we would never have gotten where we are today." She leaned across the table and kissed him on the cheek. "You needn't worry. I'm not going anywhere." A dark thought crossed her mind. "Unless you want me to go. Erik, is that what this is all about? Are you having second thoughts about, about me? About us?"

"No, of course not!"

A loud knock sounded at the door, startling them both. Erik sprang to his feet while Christine called out.

"Who's there?"

She was answered by a voice from her past.

"Open the door, my love. It's me – Raoul. Are you surprised?"

Erik groaned and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "Can this day get any worse?"

Christine tsked at Erik. "Behave yourself!" She rose to answer the door.

"Did you know he was coming?" Erik demanded.

"I suspected he might. After all, I saw the same newspaper that you surely did."

"I see."

"Now hush. I don't need two men making a scene in my room. What will the hotel management think?"

She went to the door, and the moment she opened it, Raoul scooped her into his arms and kissed her the way a man who's been away at sea for two years kisses a woman.

"Oh, God, how I've missed you," he sighed.

She pushed him away, and with a glance to Erik, said, "Raoul! You should have sent word that you were coming. I had no idea you were in New York. Have you had breakfast? _Ours_ just arrived." She rang for room service and ordered a third breakfast.

Erik smirked, emboldened by the manner in which Christine had subtly established him as her legitimate caller in front of vicomte, but one look at Raoul de Chagny wiped the smirk from his face.

"The boy," as Erik used to think of him, had filled out, his shoulders grown broad and strong, his waist, trim and narrow. Two years at sea had bronzed his skin and given his hair a golden glow. Raoul had fought the Arctic elements and won, and walked with the confidence of a man accustomed to giving orders. No, this was not the callow youth from that night on the rooftop. Even so, de Chagny froze when he saw Erik standing in the room with them.

"What's _this_?" Raoul said, arching his eyebrow.

"_This_," Christine said, unflappable, "is Erik Duquesne." She took Erik's arm and looked at him adoringly.

A slight quaver in his voice betrayed Raoul's nervousness. "Erik? You mean…_the _Erik? The…_phan—_"

A knock at the door stopped him from finishing his sentence.

"Ah, here's room service now with your breakfast," Christine interrupted in an effort to diffuse the situation.

Erik stood stiffly while the third place at the table was set. He narrowed his eyes and sniffed. "Erik Duquesne," he said firmly.

Christine noticed that neither man extended his hand towards the other. "Breakfast!" she said announced, forcing a smile on her face as if this were the most fabulous event of the season. "Doesn't it look simply grand?"

Raoul coughed nervously. "_This_ is the mysterious Phantom of the Opera? I thought you told me he looked like a living corpse!"

Erik snorted. "I've put on a little weight."

Raoul's healthy complexion turned ashen. He glared at Christine, demanding an explanation. "This is the man you visited beneath the Opera House for two weeks?" He stared long and hard at Erik, and then turned back to Christine. "Just what were the two of you doing down there for two weeks, anyway?"

Erik enjoyed watching de Chagny discomfiture, and grinned like the devil himself. "It was fifteen days, but neither of us was really counting."

"My mistake," Raoul fumed. "Fifteen days, then."

Christine sat and sipped her coffee, acting as though she was without a care in the world. "Nothing like what you're imaging, I'm sure."

Erik joined her at the table and picked up his cup of coffee as well. "We sang."

"Fifteen days together, alone, unchaperoned, with this…this _man_, and you want me to believe all you did was sing?" Raoul sat at the table across from Erik, closely watching every move the other man made.

Erik shrugged his shoulders dismissively, as though de Chagny and his concerns were insignificant. "We did stop occasionally to eat and sleep."

"I thought you were dead," Raoul said bluntly.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Erik asked sarcastically. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "You must have been reading _L'Epoque_. You should know by now that you can never believe everything you read in the papers."

"Where I read it doesn't matter. And what are you doing in New York? Of all places!"

"I happen to live in this city. And what, may I ask, are _you _doing _here_?" Erik countered.

Christine flushed with anger. "Raoul, Erik is my guest – my _invited_ guest – and I'll thank you not to question him. He is not your concern."

"But Christine! _You_ are my concern. You are to be my wife!"

She sighed, clearly running out of patience. "We had an understanding, Raoul. Neither of us was bound to the other. We both agreed that we should see other people, to explore other relationships, to find our true selves."

"I was on a ship!" Raoul rose from the table and began pacing the room. "Who did you expect me to court? Mermaids?"

Erik choked on a croissant and hid his laughter behind his napkin.

Raoul shot him a warning glare. "I'll thank _you_ to stay away from _my_ fiancée."

"We are not engaged!" Christine snapped at Raoul, angry at his presumptive behavior.

Erik glared back, but seized the opportunity. "If you love her, de Chagny, you're about to have one last chance to win her. Unexpected business compels me to be away for a few weeks. While I am gone, I trust you to guarantee her safety while she is in New York."

Raoul resumed his seat before the former phantom, wary of what the other man was saying. "I don't understand. Is this some kind of trick? What could possibly happen to her in New York City?"

"Yes, Erik; just what are you talking about?" Christine asked.

"This isn't the Opera House," Erik said cryptically. "Don't let her out of your sight."

He stood up abruptly, took Christine's hand, and pulled her to her feet as he stepped away from the table. Knowing Raoul could hear every word, he said, "Don't talk to strangers, Christine, no matter what they tell you. Most certainly not Mr. Kermanshahi; he is _not_ a friend of mine. He is using you to get to me."

She shivered at his words. "Erik, you're frightening me."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to, but it's the truth. I knew Rahzoul many years ago, in Persia. Christine, he is a dangerous man. I want you to stay away from him, and I'm trusting Sir Lancelot over there," he nodded in Raoul's direction, "to watch over you in my absence."

"But he seemed like such a nice man," Christine said sadly. "He even gave me a present. He said it once belonged to you." She held out her arm and showed him the gold bracelet on her wrist. Engraved around the bangle in a running motif was an unusual design. Noticing how keenly Erik examined it, she continued. "I'm not sure what they are, but it is very pretty."

Erik's face paled. "May I see that?"

Christine removed the bracelet so that he could examine it.

"They're grasshoppers," he said numbly, recognizing the piece of jewelry as one he had made years ago for a particularly talented odalisque back in Teheran with whom he had shared a brief, but pleasurable, relationship. The lady in question had hardly been one who would willingly give up a precious bauble such as this, leaving Erik with only one conclusion – that she was no longer alive and that Rahzoul was in some way responsible. Presenting the bracelet to Christine was Rahzoul's way of taunting Erik, of letting Erik know he understood the nature of their relationship. He returned the bracelet to Christine, who put it back on.

"Why would anyone put grasshoppers on a bracelet?" she asked, admiring it.

"In some cultures," Erik said, "they are symbols of music, and hard work, and—"

"Destruction," Raoul interrupted, annoyed at all the fuss being made over the piece of jewelry. "They are the creatures of plagues of Biblical proportions. They spare no one. They are relentless."

Erik nodded, looking de Chagny in the eye. "Keep her safe."

"I don't know what this is about, but if someone from your past is threatening Christine, then we must go to the police," Raoul said. "Or is it that you're afraid to go to them?" he added tauntingly.

"They can't help," Erik said flatly. "Rahzoul hasn't done anything wrong -- yet. He's like a scorpion. He'll bide his time, and won't make a move until he's ready…or if he feels threatened."

It was obvious that Raoul didn't like feeling helpless, and he ground his teeth as he paced the room. "What do you suggest we do, then?"

"Be careful. Watch out for anything unusual. And most of all – stay safe until I return."

"I won't let you go," Christine said tearfully. "I don't understand this at all! I don't like it one bit. You can't leave me again, not when we've only just found each other."

Erik clasped her to him and trailed tiny kisses along her delicate brow before kissing her fully on the mouth, ignoring Raoul's protests. Before he released her, he whispered in her ear, "Fate binds thee to me." Then he turned to leave the room.

She held his hand and squeezed before releasing it, and she whispered back, "I'll be waiting."

He smiled confidently and tapped his hat in place as he walked out the door. "I'll be back before you know it."

Raoul threw his hat and coat on the divan and sat down dejectedly. "I guess this means we can dispense with the small talk."

-0-0-0-

Erik returned home, tossing his hat and coat at Mrs. Flynn. "Meet me in my study in five minutes," he ordered and walked on, Wolf at his heels. Inside the study, he took a seat by the fireplace and looked down at Wolf, curled up by his feet, envying the dog's carefree existence.

All the way home, he had considered how to approach Mrs. Flynn on the subject of the safety of the domestic help. They were in danger, and all because of him.

_No! Not because of me, but because of Rahzoul!_

The first thing he had to do was to get that girl, Kathleen, out of harm's way without tipping his hand to his nemesis.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. D.?" Mrs. Flynn was standing in the doorway.

Erik nodded in the affirmative. "Please, be seated," he said, pointing to the chair opposite his. He hated what he was about to do next, but it had to be done. Feigning anger, he turned on the housekeeper. "What kind of a household do you think I'm running?"

The poor woman was flustered, and started wringing her hands. "I have no idea what you mean—"

Erik interrupted her. "I will _not_ have loose women in my employ, do you understand?"

"But…but you don't, sir," she exclaimed, offended at his suggestion. "Perhaps if you explain to me what the problem is, I can get to the bottom of things. I'm sure whatever it is, this is all a misunderstanding."

"I'm referring to the chambermaid, Kathleen, and her boasting of allowing her latest beau to – how did she say it? – get in her…her knitters."

"Her _what? _You mean knickers?"

"Yes. Of course. That's what I meant to say."

"She said that? To you?" she questioned him suspiciously.

"No. I…I overheard her talking to the cook." He saw the look in Mrs. Flynn's eye, the silent accusation that he had been eavesdropping. "I don't normally make habit of listening in on other people's conversations."

_At least, not since I left the opera house._

"Besides, how I found out is not the issue here. The issue is that a young lady like Kathleen needs to take better care of…of her reputation. There are unscrupulous men around, men who would gladly take advantage of her and not care of the consequences. I don't want that happening to anyone under my employ. Is that clear?"

"Does this have something to do with you having us making sure doors and windows are locked, and keeping a lookout for strangers loitering around the neighborhood? Because if it is, all you had to do was say so. You can rely upon me to do what's right."

Erik exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "It appears I've underestimated you, madam," he said, the exposed side of his facing showing his embarrassment. "You're right. I should have trusted you to understand."

"That's all right, sir. You're worried. Even a blind man can see it. Can you tell me what it is? Maybe if I know what's going on…"

"No, I can't tell you. Not now. You'll have to trust me on this."

"Very well." She got up from her chair. "I'll talk to Kathleen, and I'll let her know in no uncertain terms that she to mend her ways…or else…" and she made a gesture of booting someone out the door.

"Then I shall leave the matter in your capable hands, and when you've finished talking to the young lady, you can give the rest of the staff the evening off."

"Is that wise? I mean, if you're expecting trouble…"

"I don't think we have anything to worry about tonight, and I have some serious thinking to do. I prefer to be alone this evening and don't wish to be disturbed."

"Very good, sir." She paused as a thought occurred to her. "Not even for fire, Mr. D.?" she asked with a grin at their long-running joke.

Even Erik couldn't resist the urge to laugh this time. "No, not even for that fire you're always worrying about."

-0-0-0-

Erik sat silently in his study, mulling over the situation.

_How do I track down Rahzoul? How do I make him reveal himself? Place a personal advertisement in the newspaper? Announcement my presence to the public? Shout out, "I'm here! The Phantom of the Opera!"_

He laughed out loud at that last thought, and Wolf looked up from his place by the fire, curious at the sudden outburst of sound.

Erik glanced fondly over at the dog. "It's all right, boy. I'm not going crazy." He walked over to the decanter of Courvoisier that was sitting on his desk and poured himself a drink. The golden liquid tasted good as it slid down his throat.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It was the housekeeper. "I know you said absolutely no interruptions…"

Erik stormed over to the door, Wolf right behind. "Mrs. Flynn? A word if you please…" he said as he opened the door and saw Christine and Raoul standing behind the housekeeper.

"The young lady insisted," Mrs. Flynn said with a bit of a grin and a twinkle in her eye.

"I didn't insist," Raoul added begrudgingly. "I was more than willing to accept your housekeeper's word that you wished not to be disturbed."

Christine turned and glowered at her escort. "Oh, do hush up and be a gentleman." She greeted Erik with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek.

Erik thanked Mrs. Flynn in spite of her muttered, "I knew I was right to interrupt," and invited his guests into the study. Wolf immediately remembered Christine and obediently came to her when she held her hand out to him. Raoul, uneasy around the wild-looking canine, held his hand out as well and was rewarded with a low growl.

"That's enough, boy," Erik ordered the dog. If he didn't know better, Erik would have suspected Wolf of being disappointed in not being allowed to menace de Chagny. Reluctantly, the dog returned to Erik's side where he sat on his haunches, alert and waiting for Raoul to do something wrong.

"What's his name?" Raoul asked, trying to make small talk and none-too-successfully mask his nervousness. "He looks...undomesticated."

"Really, Raoul," Christine said, "You act as though you are afraid of him. He's just a dog."

"Actually," Erik said, "he's half wolf and half dog and can sometimes be a bit undisciplined." He smiled as he saw the look of dismay on de Chagny's face. "And his name is Wolf, but I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss my pets."

He nodded towards the decanter. "Would you care for something to drink, Monsieur de Chagny?" To Christine, he said, "I'll have Mrs. Flynn make you some tea. I'm sure you would not wish to ruin your voice for the sake of a taste of cognac."

Christine pouted prettily. "I'd rather have a brandy."

"She'll have the tea," Raoul said.

Erik hated agreeing with anything Raoul said, but in this case, he had to. "Have you forgotten your teacher's instructions regarding caring for your most precious gift – your vocal chords? It's tea for you, my dear, and an herbal tea at that."

"And what about _your_ voice, Maestro?" she retorted as she blinked coyly. "Do you no longer care for it like the fine instrument it is?"

"Fine." Erik poured her a brandy, just to spite Raoul. A very small brandy, though.

Drinks poured, Christine explained the purpose of their visit. "After what you told me this morning, I began thinking about several things that have happened over the last few days. At first, I thought they were harmless pranks – my slippers disappearing, items moved around in my dressing room when I wasn't there, things like that. I assumed they were merely the results of carelessness by the staff. But this latest one is more frightening. Shortly after you left this morning, I received this." She handed Erik a shoebox-sized package.

Carefully, he took off the lid and looked inside. There, carefully nestled within sheets of tissue paper was a preserved scorpion – and a note. He picked it up and read it.

_Ask the grasshopper._

"Did you touch this?"

"No," Christine and Raoul answered in unison.

Raoul got up and walked back and forth in front of the fireplace. Wolf got up, too, and growled. Shrinking away from the animal, Raoul quickly returned to his seat, ignoring Erik's snickering. "I need to know just what the hell is going on," he said. "What are you doing to ensure Christine's safety?"

Erik shook his head. "I'm sorry. I cannot include either of you in what I have to do."

He looked at Christine. "And you're right, my love – this is not a prank or a joke. It is a threat – against me. Years ago, before I came to Paris, I was once in the service of a foreign dignitary. I suspect the man responsible for these…pranks...is an old adversary – a very dangerous adversary, I might add, not a person to be trifled with or taken lightly." Erik did not want to add the obvious, that she was one of Rahzoul's targets, too, because of their relationship."

To Raoul he said sternly, "You're the hero of the _Requin_. You've battled the elements and the wild. All you need to do now is protect one woman. Are you up to the task?"

Raoul bristled at his manhood being impugned. "I'll take care of her, if only to prove to Christine that I'm the better man."

"Then take her home and keep her safe."

"But…I had planned on going shopping at Tiffany's," Christine said.

"I don't think that would be a good idea right now."

"It would only be for a few hours," she added. "I would be just as safe in public, and if you insist, I'll take Raoul with me, although I'd rather it be you."

"I'm not sure," Erik said.

"I'll be safe, Erik," she pleaded. "Raoul will be with me, and this Rahzoul person would, I'm sure, prefer to do whatever it is he wants to do in private and not in front of all of New York."

"Very well," said Erik, giving in reluctantly, knowing Christine would no doubt do whatsoever she wanted to do. "All I ask is that you do not leave de Chagny's side."

Their discussion over, Christine and Raoul made ready to leave. Raoul paused and looked around at the room.

"This is quite a place you have here. I have to confess, I am impressed with your house in spite of myself." He turned to face Erik. "Tell me the truth. You didn't really live _under_ the opera house…did you?"

Erik gave Raoul an enigmatic grin, but declined to answer. "Just take care of her, de Chagny. Don't leave her alone for a minute."

"She'd be safer in Paris. I should whisk her away to one of my estates where she will be—"

Christine interrupted the two men. "Don't I have some say in this? I am_not_ an object to be whisked."

Erik shook his head and suppressed a chuckle at her bravado.

"Have you any idea how long will my 'services' be required?" Raoul asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

"As long as it takes," replied Erik. "As long as it takes."

-0-0-0-

All afternoon, Erik was on edge. He knew today was the day something would happen. The delivery of the scorpion told him so. He debated whether to follow Raoul and Christine from a distance, but decided against it. If Rahzoul were watching him, doing so would only increase her danger. He glanced down at Wolf, who was prancing as he awaited his daily walk, and rang for the housekeeper.

"Would you take Wolf for his constitutional?" he requested.

The housekeeper looked worried. "But…are you sure? I mean, what if this person you're concerned about..."

Erik smiled cheerily, knowing he had to give the performance of his life if he was to get Mrs. Flynn out of the house. If danger did come tonight, he did not want her around.

"I highly doubt anything will happen. Not today, at any rate. I'd take Wolf myself, but I've got a bit of a headache," he lied.

"Very well, sir. Come along, boy," she said, the dog eagerly following.

The two had not been gone more than fifteen minutes when the doorbell rang. Erik got up and walked to the window, peering out to see who was at the door. It was a uniformed delivery boy.

_Is this how it begins?_

He answered the door and accepted a small package from Tiffany's, wrapped in gift paper. The accompanying card was written in Christine's hand.

_Raoul said I was being silly, but I thought you might like this._

Erik tipped the boy and took the gift into the parlor.

His suspicions not allayed in spite of the card, Erik very carefully opened the package, alert for anything malicious, but it looked ordinary enough. Removing the wrapping paper, he found a gift box emblazoned with Tiffany's name. Nestled inside was a beautiful hand-painted lacquer box, the kind often used to hold cuff links and tie tacks. He lifted it out, inspecting the box from every angle, finding nothing out of place, and then he opened the lid and felt something prick his finger.

The last thing he saw was the needle sticking out from the box.

-0-0-0-


	18. Torture

Hang on to your seats, everyone!

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* * *

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**The Way to Love  
Chapter 17  
Torture**

Erik shuddered as consciousness returned; he was disoriented and confused. He struggled to remember what happened. Christine…the box…a pinprick…. His head snapped back with a jerk as the truth struck him like a hammer: He'd been drugged!

He tried to swallow but his mouth felt like cotton, and his head pounded. He had no memory of being transported to this strange, dank place. His looked down as found that his vest, cravat and coat had been removed, and when he tried to move, he found himself restrained by ropes that tightly bound his ankles and wrists to a sturdy wooden chair.

He peered into the darkness, searching clues as to his whereabouts. It was some kind of warehouse. The air was stale, and reeked of an acrid odor that he couldn't quite place. Gunpowder, perhaps?

Someone threw a switch, and a blinding light shone directly overhead. He bowed his head in an attempt to shield his eyes and realized that his mask had been removed. From the recesses of the vast room came a familiar voice – smooth and taunting.

"Good evening, old friend. I see you've allowed emotions to cloud your judgment. Such a shame. The Erik I knew in Persia would never have fallen for such an obvious trick."

The speaker stepped forward, his form silhouetted against the harsh light. He looked about the empty storeroom, as though inspecting it for the first time. "I trust the accommodations meet with your satisfaction?"

"Poison is a woman's weapon," Erik snarled. "It would have been beneath the Rahzoul I knew in Persia." The ropes cut into his flesh as he struggled to free himself. "I'm tired of playing games with you. What do you want?"

Rahzoul's low, sinister laugh echoed throughout the warehouse. "Want? Why, dear boy, I want you to suffer the same as you've made me suffer all these years. But before we proceed further, may I interject a personal observation?"

Rahzoul stepped closer, away from the blinding back light, and stopped in front of Erik. He put a finger under Erik's chin, lifting his head so that they were face-to-face. "It is no wonder you keep your face covered during your tenure in Persia. Any creature as hideous as you would never have been accepted at court. In fact, I am positive you are not human; not really. Seeing your true form at last, I no longer harbor any doubts as to the nature of your origin. You are Evil Incarnate, and what I am about to do will benefit the entire world."

"I didn't ask you to look beneath the mask," Erik said through clenched teeth.

Rahzoul shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand nonchalantly, as though swatting away a bothersome gnat. He stepped away from the chair and paced in front of Erik.

"No matter. Let us move on, shall we? I've been following you for years, you know. I tracked you across Europe, though it took me years, and then, when I thought I had you cornered, you disappeared. But I am a patient man, and fortune eventually smiled upon me.

"I remembered you telling me once of Paris, and how you wished to one day live in the fabled City of Lights. So I headed there. I searched every rat hole, every sewer, until my patience paid off. At last, I found a clue – the stories of an Opera Ghost.

"For months, I watched the Garnier, waiting for you to give yourself away. I ingratiated myself with some of the ballet rats. Very amusing, those girls – always eager to share their stories of the bogeyman haunting the cellars, always hungry for a few coins."

He paused, smiling in such a way that implied he knew the dancers quite well – perhaps too well.

"If you hurt any of them—" Erik growled.

"None of them are complaining – not anymore."

Rahzoul smirked, his implication making Erik's skin crawl.

"And then, there was Buquet. A few minutes with that drunken excuse of a scene changer was all it took to learn that, in spite of my best efforts to track you down, you'd once again bolted. Quite rude of you, when you think of it. After all those years, I almost had you cornered." Rahzoul chuckled, a dry, humorless laugh.

The truth struck Erik hard and he was livid. "Buquet had no knowledge of me! What did you possibly gain from killing him?"

"Why does the death of a worthless peasant concern you so? He was of no importance," the Persian, his tone filled with arrogance. "He was more informative, and far easier to dispose of, than that feisty old biddy who called herself a box keeper. Quite the talker, she was, but utterly insensible."

_She was alone when she died_. _The authorities surmised that she must have had a heart attack after taking a nightcap, as she was found sitting in her chair by the fireplace, her partially empty glass of sherry still on the table next to her_.

"You murdering bastard!"

Rahzoul laughed off the accusation. "That's rather like the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say? Admit it, Erik. You've grown careless in your later years. From the time you left Paris, I was able to track your whereabouts simply by watching ships' manifests. Once I saw where you were running, I followed. I've been watching you for months in this ghastly city."

"If I had known you were here, I would have had you for dinner," Erik said with exaggerated courtesy. His meaning was not lost on the Persian.

"You haven't lost your sense of humor," Rahzoul replied with mock indignation. "The truth is I allowed you to know I was here, and still you failed to act upon that knowledge. I could have remained here, completely unknown to you, but I thought to give you a sporting chance by sending you my calling cards."

"The grasshoppers and the scorpions."

Rahzoul smiled wickedly. "Perhaps you forgot that the former Daroga of the Persian Empire always catches his man. But where are your manners, dear boy? It wouldn't hurt you to extend a warm welcome to an old friend. It's little enough to ask, after all you put me through."

"What _I_ put _you_ through?"

"_You_ usurped my position," Rahzoul responded coldly. "_You_ destroyed my career. You _killed_ my wife!"

"You're mad!"

"I expected you would say that. I have, however, found a way to secure your admission of guilt."

Rahzoul walked over to the wall and flicked another switch. A second light came on, illuminating a second room, one with walls of thick, one-way glass. The floor of the room was covered with sand to mimic the desert, and out of the sand rose several barren, iron trees of varying sizes. Erik's heart sank as he recognized his crowning achievement while in Persia – an exact replica of the chamber he had designed for the _Khanum_. Inside, a woman paced the room and wrung her hands.

"Christine!" Erik cried, straining frantically against his bindings.

She started at the sound of his voice and turned in his direction. "Erik! Where are you? All I can see is myself reflected hundreds of times in these mirrors"

Angry and frustrated, she threw herself against the unbreakable glass, landing hard against it. Undaunted, she repeated her attempt to shatter the glass, but her efforts were futile. At last, she slumped against the wall.

"I think Raoul is dead," she said sadly after a long silence. She rose to her feet and looked angrily at the glass, as if she could see Rahzoul. "_He _was waiting for us when we returned from Tiffany's."

"Quite true," said Rahzoul as he walked towards the farthest corner of the room. "You really should have hired a better watch dog, Magician. It was far too easy for me to slip into your lovely prima donna's rooms and wait. Once again, my persistence has been rewarded. I had all the time I wanted to get to know her, Erik – to discover what it is that you like best about her. She's quite the accommodating hostess, especially when she is bound and gagged."

"Don't listen to him, Erik," she said. "He's saying these things to anger you." Then, to Rahzoul, she cried out, "Bastard!"

"Temper! Temper, my dear," Rahzoul chided, then turned his attention to a cabinet standing to the side of the chamber's window. He opened the cabinet doors and emerged from the shadows muttering to himself in a childish, singsong tone, his attention focused on the silver tray he was carrying. As he approached the circle of light that shone on Erik, he smiled insidiously and spoke over his shoulder to Christine.

"Forgive my lapse in courtesy, my dear. I should have asked you sooner. How do you like your new room, my dear? Your lover designed it himself. Those walls are impenetrable, thanks to one of his clever inventions. He always was ahead of his time."

He turned back to Erik. "I've had plenty of time to rebuild the chamber to your exact specifications while keeping an eye on you, thanks to that lovely little chambermaid of yours. What's her name, again? Kathleen? But why speak of her when we have lovely Mlle Daaé with us?"

"You don't need her, Daroga," Erik said angrily, working to quell the dread enveloping him. "You have me. Let her go!"

"Why would I let her go? You are both my guests," Rahzoul responded calmly. "Now, let us be civil."

"Let me out of here!" Christine screamed. Her face was streaked with tears, and Erik saw that her dress was torn, exposing her shoulder. His anger turned to fury.

"If you have harmed her in any way, I'll kill you!"

"Tut, tut," Rahzoul said, his voice silky smooth. "You always were a fiery lad. She is in no danger, as long as you cooperate. A little slip of a girl like Christine can't hope to escape. Meanwhile," he said with smug satisfaction, "you and I have a lot of catching up to do. And I have had _such_ a very long time to plan our reunion." He set the tray on a table sitting next to the chair, and pulled back the cloth cover with flourish.

Erik's stomach lurched as he recognized the implements of torture, tools he thought never to see again. He looked back at Rahzoul, knew the Persian's tactics, knew that Rahzoul would deliberately take his time in order build those feelings of fear and terror, but Erik refused to give in to his emotions

_The longer I can distract him from Christine,_ _the better,_ he consoled himself.

He looked again at the tray and took a deep breath, forcing himself to assume a dispassionate demeanor. Shining in the dim light was a surgeon's field kit, supplemented with what appeared to be autopsy shears and butchers' saws. Erik almost gagged on the bitter taste in his mouth as he watched Rahzoul run his fingers over the fine instruments, caressing each of them lovingly.

Rahzoul lifted the instruments one at a time, inspecting each one, holding it up to the light, admiring the gleam of the sharpened steel. His hand lingered over a bone mallet. He checked his reflection in a large saw blade, and polished the surface of a pair of dental pliers on his sleeve.

"What's happening?" Christine cried out, alarm in her voice. "Erik, talk to me. I can't see anything."

Rahzoul glanced towards the mirrored room and stroked his chin, pondering. "That is a pity, my dear."

He turned to Erik with a frown. "I failed to take into consideration the two-way mirrors. In this case, our little songbird's inability to see out of the box may be a disadvantage. I have no doubt that Christine would learn a great deal today. Ah well, she will simply have to listen and allow her imagination fill in the missing pieces. I wonder what she will think when she hears you scream. You will, my dear boy. Believe me, you will scream. I wasn't the most feared man in Persia for no reason. In the end, even the strongest ones broke."

"You have me now; she is irrelevant, Daroga," Erik said calmly. "Let her go."

"I should think you would want your lover to become well acquainted with the one who knows you best," he replied with unconcealed contempt. "Besides, she is integral to my plan and shall remain here, with us. I intend to take my time renewing our acquaintance – the same way you took your time undermining me all those years ago in Teheran."

"I never deceived you. I _never_ worked against you. Your downfall was your own doing!"

"Now, then, there's no need to rush," Rahzoul said, his voiced deceptively quiet. The Persian paused, deep in thought and outwardly calm, but his ruddy complexion betrayed his growing excitement. He turned his baleful glare upon Erik, examining his prisoner as if appraising a clinical specimen. Then he grinned.

"I am doing you a favor, Magician. I am going to make you sing! Your woman over there will be the beneficiary of a beautifully orchestrated concert – a concert of pain."

"Leave him alone!" Christine begged. "He's done nothing to you!"

"On the contrary, my dear, he has caused me great harm. I loved him like a brother to me, and how did he repay my kindnesses? By taking away everything that I loved. I am merely returning the favor."

Ignoring Rahzoul's insane rantings, Erik continued to struggle against his bonds. Gripping his fingers underneath the edge of the armrest, he felt a splinter. He dug at it with his fingernails, finding a slightly protruding nail head beneath the fragment of wood. If he could pry the nail loose…

He looked back at Rahzoul, worried that his captor would see what he was doing, but the Persian was occupied in selecting his first instrument. Erik returned to the armrest, and allowed himself to feel a faint glimmer of hope. It was a slim chance, but better than the alternative. Disregarding the fragments biting into the flesh under his fingernails, Erik pried away a piece of wood, creating a long, jagged edge, and began sliding the bindings on his right wrist against it.

"What are you doing? What's happening?" Christine screamed. "Let me out of here! Let me see Erik!"

"Sing, little songbird," Rahzoul encouraged her, like a father to a child learning to speak. "Sing! It will provide pleasant music for my work."

"You…you _bastard!_" she cried, pounding her fists against the glass. "If you hurt him—"

Rahzoul nodded approvingly. "She has fire, my brother," he said, his eyes gleaming."I'll grant you that."

He walked over to the glass wall. "Tell me, dear lady. Even if you could reach me, what could a woman such as you possibly do to me? You are powerless to stop me."

"You'd be surprised at what I can do," Christine promised. She looked about for anything that could facilitate her escape, eyeing one of the small steel trees in the room. Using all her might, she wrenched it out of the sand-covered floor and hurled it against the glass wall, only to cry out in dismay as it bounced off harmlessly.

Rahzoul scoffed. "Please continue, my dear. It won't do you any good. I believe I mentioned that the strengthened glass is unbreakable, but if it helps you occupy your time, do your worst."

Erik continued working the rope while Rahzoul antagonized Christine, encouraged when he felt it working loose. He redoubled his efforts in spite of the fibers of the rope burning his flesh. Blood began to soak the hemp, but he was glad for it. The moist fibers would make less noise as they rubbed against the jagged wood.

"Tell me, little brother," Rahzoul said, still gazing in Christine's direction. "How does it feel to show the woman you love one of your finest achievements?" He turned back to Erik. "Oh, forgive me. It only just occurred to me that you never told her the true nature of your work in Teheran. You never told her that you were the Chief Inquisitor, did you? Never told her that you were charged with extracting secrets from enemies of the state – in any manner necessary? You should be proud of your work. You were very good at it. Indeed, I think you rather enjoyed it."

He sidled like a crab closer to the glass cell and spoke directly to Christine. "Your lover never once complained, my dear, not even when the screams of his prisoners were deafening. Not even that time he slipped and fell in the blood. Do you remember, Erik? It was quite comical, especially when you told the man you'd just cut to ribbons, 'I will send you my cleaning bill.'"

Erik shuddered. He remembered the event quite clearly, but differently. It had been Rahzoul who had made the sick joke at the poor victim's expense, Rahzoul who had always taken an obscene pleasure in his work, particularly when it involved torture.

Christine was trembling. It was as if she could sense the Persian's presence. She put her hands over her ears and yelled, "I don't believe you! Erik would never be so cruel—"

"Never say never, dear child," Rahzoul said. "I never thought he would betray me, either – but he did."

Erik stopped working the rope as Rahzoul turned towards him. "I did not betray you! Your actions were your own undoing."

"Dog! Miserable, accursed excuse for a man!" Rahzoul screamed, lurching towards Erik. He lost all pretense of deportment and raved like a lunatic. "You who are without a face, without a soul! Do not dare to contradict me. We both know the truth of what you are!"

"You are right, Rahzoul, as always. I am your prisoner," Erik said coolly, attempting to mollify his adversary. "I am at your mercy."

Rahzoul relaxed, visibly appeased by Erik's apparent contrition. "That's right. You are a condemned man," he said quietly, "and now, it is time to make you pay."

He dropped to his knees before Erik. "We'll start small," he said coolly. Picking up an implement from the tray, he cut the laces of Erik's shoes and carefully removed them. Using a scalpel, he cut away the socks and examined Erik's feet. "You won't be needing this," he said as he selected a scissors-like implement designed for amputating fingers and toes, a tool known as a bone nipper. Holding Erik's right foot firmly in one hand, he opened the jaws of the cutters.

Erik struggled to pull his foot away, but the rope held him tight against the chair. With quick, deft moves, Rahzoul skillfully cut away the small toe. The implement was razor sharp, and there had been little pain until the blade hit the bone. Erik blanched and broke out in a heavy sweat. His stomach roiled and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

_I must not_. _I cannot make it worse for Christine._

"There," Rahzoul said cheerfully. "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"

Erik took several deep breaths and forced himself to disregard the pain that was beginning to radiate through his right foot. He tried not to listen to the worry in Christine's voice when she called out to him, tried only to think of what he needed to do to save her.

"Erik, I can't hear anthing," she said frantically. "Tell me what's happening? Are you all right?"

"Calm down," the Persian said, like a parent comforting a child who awoke from a nightmare. "Your lover is not damaged _too_ badly. He will still be able to walk – but not without a limp."

"Oh, my God! No! Please! Please, listen to me! Whatever you want, whatever it is you are seeking, I can help you," Christine cried in desperation.

Erik called out to her. "No, Christine! It isn't worth it. He will kill me no matter what you do." The back of his head slammed hard into the bare wood of the chair as Rahzoul backhanded him, and he tasted blood.

Rahzoul twisted a handful of hair in his fist and forced his captive to look at him, their faces inches apart. "Kill you?" he said, the Daroga's voice calm and chilling. "Why, I have no intention of killing you. I'm going to make it so that, for the rest of your misbegotten life, you will regret ever having lived. _This_, Magician, _this_ is my revenge, and I plan on savoring every moment of it."

"You always did delight in this kind of work," Erik said under his breath, beyond Christine's hearing.

"Remember the proverb that says, 'Revenge is a dish best served cold'? Cold like your skin, like the flesh of a corpse." He let go of the handful of hair and returned to his work. Taking hold of Erik's right foot once again, he cut off the next toe.

Erik swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He groaned as he leaned forward, fighting the nausea and pain as he watched his own blood pool at his feet. He looked at Rahzoul and found the Persian completely entranced in his newfound pleasure. Forceps in hand, he was holding up the toe for Erik to see, studying the digit with curious detachment.

Erik forced himself to look away. He watched Christine as she leaned against the glass wall, testing it, pounding it with her fists. He smiled wanly as he recognized what she was doing. His mind cast back to Paris, back to when he had been her teacher. He remembered how she had been during those long hours spent on lessons, of what it had been like working with her on difficult tasks. Watching her carefully as she pressed her forehead against the glass wall and closed her eyes, no doubt trying to figure a way out of the cell, he recognized in her expression frustration and growing futility.

"What are you doing, _monsieur_? What do you want from him?" she pleaded.

"It's simple, really," Rahzoul answered, amused by Christine's questions. "I'm going to ensure that his seed never pollutes another woman, that his spawn will never see the light of day."

He turned his attention back to Erik. "Do you still compose, old friend?" Rahzoul asked happily. "After tonight, you'll sing in a whole new range." Carefully sorting the instruments, he selected the gelding instrument. "Perhaps you will renew interest in the _castrati_."

Rahzoul advanced on Erik, determined to finish what he had started, unaware that the rope binding's were close to snapping. With scalpel in hand, he cut open the front of Erik's pants, running the blade from ankle to thigh. Though its edge was pointed outward, the tip of the blade found Erik's flesh and sliced through it as easily as a paring knife peeling an apple. The cut was not deep, but the blood flowed freely.

"Rahzoul, stop what you are doing, before it is too late!" Christine implored. "Surely, you are a better man than this. I know it!" Tears streamed down her face and her entire body shook as she implored him to stop hurting the man she loved. "I have money! I will pay you anything, Rahzoul. All I ask is that you let us go! Let us both go and you need never see us again! We will leave New York, leave America! Please, for the love of God, I beg you to stop what you are doing!"

Rahzoul was becoming more agitated. "Why do you care for him? He isn't worthy of your compassion. He is a charlatan, a deceiver, a fraud! Wherever he goes, there is sorrow and pain!"

Erik worked the rope frantically, grateful for the distraction Christine was providing.

_Not yet, not yet_. _The rope will not yet give._

"The night is young, dear girl," Rahzoul said, giddy with the power he held over his old adversary. "It is far too early to deliver the _coupe de grace._ We have miles to go before we rest. This is for Nazzanin, my wife. She was a faithful and devoted woman, until _he_ took an interest in her. He poisoned her against me. Oh, it wasn't easy. She resisted his charms and spells, but gradually, he wore her down and stole her affections. He…he _seduced_ her!"

"That isn't true!" Erik protested, remembering the young woman with the sad face. She had been married to the Daroga while barely a child. Poor Nazzanin, she had loved her husband so very much... But Rahzoul had always been a demanding person, and his bride had never understood why nothing she did pleased him.

"She loved _you_," Erik insisted. "She was never unfaithful to you!"

Rahzoul pointed his bloodstained fingers at Erik. "Be silent, _devil!_Cease your lies,or we shall cut out your tongue. We must take our time, the way this _demon_ took his time with her. She went to you, didn't she," he said coldly. "She asked you to take her away with you, to get her out of Persia. And you agreed! You would have taken her from me! _My wife_."

"No!" Erik cried. "You're mistaken. She never ask me to take her away!" He waited, choosing his next words carefully as he sought to assuage the Persian. "She asked me to help her…love you better. She knew of my talent with cures and potions. She asked me for a philter – a potion, a draught – to make…loving you more… pleasurable. For you. She did these things for you, Rahzoul. _For you!"_

"You are not worthy to speak of her," the Persian warned.

"She was afraid of displeasing you. You were…you weren't thinking clearly, Rahzoul. Don't you remember? Don't you remember the way you beat her the night before she died?

"She _asked_ for it!" he spat, as he slashed Erik across the chest with the scalpel. "She ran to you – _you_ of all people – and offered herself to you in return for shelter."

Erik gasped as his blood soaked the front of his shirt. Rahzoul was out of control. A few inches higher and his throat would have been slashed instead of his chest. He needed to calm the man down, to get him to focus on anything other than killing.

"Nazzanin loved you, Rahzoul. She was never interested in me. How could she have been? Look at me! She would have hated me, and you know it. Even Christine can barely stand to look at me."

"My love," Christine whispered, as fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

"You supercilious bitch," Rahzoul muttered. "Do you think he is capable of loving you? Of loving anyone? Look at him! His magic deceives you, the same way it seduced my Nazzanin. Can't you see that he is a _monster?_"

Erik could take no more of the man's ravings. "No, Rahzoul. _You're _the monster. _You_ killed Nazzanin! You killed her, you pig, and you know it. I had nothing to do with her death."

Rahzoul, oblivious to Erik's accusations, continued ranting at Christine. Seizing the chance to try to break loose, Erik reared back in the chair and tipped it over on its side. His head slammed against the wooden floor, dazing him momentarily, but the chair was weakened by the impact. It would break apart easily if he could gain leverage against the floor. He frantically worked the ropes and the binding on his wrist gave way. Fast as lightning, he reached for the nearest weapon – a dissecting knife with a four-inch blade. He hid it under his wrist, and prayed that Rahzoul wouldn't see that his hand was free before he had a chance to escape.

Rahzoul raved about every imagined wrong Erik had committed against him until he was hoarse. He paced back and forth in front of Christine's cell, and she followed him step for step, pretending to sympathize with him. It seemed to be working until he stopped to switch on the heating mechanism to the torture chamber. With callous indifference, he watched as she began to wilt from the heat. She held the back of one hand to her forehead and fanned herself with the other as she looked for some water to drink and relief from the heat.

"Are you parched, my dear?" he asked facetiously. "Imagine that you are in the desert, abandoned, outcast, with no hope of survival. Imagine that the temperature is far beyond the toleration of the human body, and that there is no shade, no water, no escape. Imagine that you have been condemned to death for murdering the mother of your children.

"Imagine that the Finger of Fate moves and writes that you will be spared. A simple peasant finds you, almost beyond saving, and brings you back to life. You cling to the thought of finding the man responsible and punishing him for what he has done to you."

He spun around and pointed his finger at Erik, and saw the chair on the floor. "Tsk, tsk, dear boy. What's this? Did you try to escape?" He came over and righted the chair, his prisoner still intact. Thankfully, he was too caught up in his own fantasies to notice that the ropes were loosened.

"How sad for you," Erik said, hoping to lure him closer, "but sadder yet for Nazzanin. She was so young…so beautiful…so eager to be a good wife."

"Yes," Rahzoul whispered. "A good wife."

"An _obedient_ wife, a _loving_ wife," Erik added in a suggestive tone, "and a very _skillful_ one."

"Are you admitting that you used her, like one of your whores?" Rahzoul asked coldly.

"No, she was not like the _Khanum_, who tossed men aside once they served their purpose."

"Like yesterday's garbage," the Persian said, talking to himself as he reached for the gelding knife. "Like a worthless piece of trash! Like what you are about to become."

The moment was at hand. Erik knew he would have one chance. As Rahzoul stooped in front of him, Erik struck, plunging the knife deep into the base of the other man's neck, aiming for the carotid artery.

Rahzoul staggered backwards, making a terrible gurgling sound. He wheeled about, grasping for something to on which to hold. He stumbled towards the torture chamber, groping for the lever that would guarantee Christine's demise.

Erik quickly freed his left hand and both feet, and limped towards his foe. He saw that though he had missed his mark, the wound was severe nonetheless. Rahzoul braced himself against the wall, clutching at the knife. He pulled it out, every breath he drew through the gash in his throat making a ghastly sucking noise. He turned the knife on Erik.

The Phantom sprang into a fighting stance, his reflexes honed by adrenaline. He knocked the knife away and grabbed his foe by the collar. He shoved the Persian into the nearest wall with all his might, rattling the man's brain, and he watched with satisfaction as Rahzoul's eyes rolled back in his head.

"This is for what you did to Christine," he said, hitting Rahzoul squarely in the jaw before drawing back his fist for another blow. "And this is for what you did to Nazzanin!" The cartilage in the Persian's nose gave way with a sickening crunch.

After several more blows, Erik let go and Rahzoul fell in a heap, still and quiet at last.

* * *

Author's Note: I would like to thank my own personal Grand Inquisitor, Lizzy, for all her help with this chapter. In fact, she helped with writing a good portion of it. Thanks, Lizzy!! 


	19. Rescue

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 18  
Rescue**

**Author's Note:** Time to get Christine out of the tanning booth…I mean, the torture chamber. Thanks again to Lizzy, not only for her editing and beta skills, but also for answering my inane questions about gunpowder. Oh, and to clarify something about Lizzy's contributions. When I said that Lizzy helped me write some of the chapters, I mean that she collaborated with me. (Does that sound right?) That is, she sometimes write scenes and sections (and even a chapter here and there), and I go over everything and change a few words here and there so the writing styles match. Just want to make sure she gets credit for all her hard word. --HD

* * *

Erik leaned against the wall as he caught his breath. He looked down at Rahzoul's unconscious form with its smashed-in face and wounded neck. With his pallid face and ragged breathing, there was little doubt that the Persian was not long for this earth. Not that any of this troubled Erik. The sooner Rahzoul visited the Muslim version of hell, the better. Erik looked about for a piece of rope to secure Rahzoul, just in case. 

"Erik! What's happening? Say something. Anything!"

Erik turned towards the one-way mirror, the one that allowed him to see Christine but that prevented her from seeing him. She was close to panic, pounding on the glass, her hands wrapped with fabric torn from her skirt.

"I'm all right," he called out to her. "Rahzoul and I fought."

"Is he—is he dead?"

"No. Not yet. Stay still. Sit down in the middle of the chamber. I'm going to find the switch and turn off the lamps. It'll be dark in there, so don't move around. Wait for me. I'm coming to get you."

He looked for a means of protecting his damaged foot and spied his outer clothes in a pile on the floor – his jacket, vest, cravat, shredded stockings, and shoes. There was no time to worry about dressing, but he grabbed the cravat and wrapped it around his foot. Then he slipped on his jacket, suspecting he might need its protection. He went to where he'd seen Rahzoul turn on the torture chamber lights and found the switch, exhaling a sigh of relief when the chamber went dark.

Near the light switch was a door. Erik gave the knob a turn and was pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. He hoped that this was the way to the chamber. He stepped across the threshold, the light from the main room revealing a room the size of a small closet. An insect flitted past his face, and another was crawling on his hand. He brushed the things away, noticing that they were grasshoppers. He looked again, and this time saw that the room was filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of grasshoppers – some flying and hopping out of the way, making noise as they flashed their back wings, while others clung to him, their tiny legs hooking into his clothing and skin as he made his way across the room.

_What's next? Scorpions?_ he thought with a dry sense of humor, realizing that Rahzoul must have had further plans for either him or Christine that had to do with this room, and thinking that perhaps he should have taken time to put on his shoes. "No going back now," he said to himself as he opened a second door at the back of the room.

As he had feared, the floor in the second room was covered with a variety of scorpions, some more venomous than others. He removed his jacket and swept a path, knowing that the creatures were generally harmless and timid, that they would prefer to run from danger and only used their sting for killing prey or defense. Shock and adrenaline were wearing off, and Erik was beginning to hurt, especially his foot.

_No time for that now. Got to get to Christine._

He continued forward, talking to Christine, telling her he was following the sound of her voice, trying to keep her from thinking about what was happening. At last, he came to a third door. This turned out to be the entrance to the glass chamber.

Erik was relieved to discover that Rahzoul had not changed the locking device, and was able to open it without difficulty. Even though the lamps had been turned off for several minutes, he could feel the heat leach out of the room as the door opened.

Christine jumped up, able to see Erik's silhouette in the faint light. "Thank heaven you've come!" she cried as she ran into his waiting arms, crying and laughing at the same time. "I was so frightened."

Erik hugged her tight, glad that she couldn't see his injuries in the pale illumination filtering in from the main room. "You're not afraid of insects, are you?" he asked.

She took a deep breath and looked up into Erik's face. Then she gave him a shaky smile. "Of course not. Why?"

"Grasshoppers. Several hundred of them out there." Erik nodded towards the door he'd just come through.

"Out there? I think I can handle walking through some grasshoppers."

"And scorpions. You need to step carefully."

"No problem. I'm not going to let a bunch of insects keep me in here any longer than necessary."

"Insects and arthropods," Erik said absentmindedly as he carefully led her into the scorpion chamber.

"Arthro-what?"

"Arthropods. That's what scorpions are. Not insects. _Damn!"_

"What's wrong?"

"One of the buggers stung me on the foot," Erik groaned.

"Are they—deadly?" Christine asked, her voice filled with worry.

"No, but the stings hurt like hell."

She looked down at his feet and saw that Erik was barefooted. "Then let me lead. I'm wearing shoes."

Erik agreed, taking pride in the way she appeared to enjoy crunching under her heel the stubborn ones that wouldn't get out of the way.

At last, they stepped out into the main warehouse room, grasshoppers and scorpions skittering about. Now that they were in the lighted room, Christine was able to see the extent of Erik's injuries.

"What did he do to you?" she said, her eyes widening as she took in the cuts, the blood-soaked shirt and the bandaged foot.

"Nothing that won't heal, my love," he said, doing his best to reassure her. He put his arm around her waist, directing her towards the exit. Through the windows, he could see that it was still dark outside. Without a watch, he had no idea what time it was, or how long they'd been here. At this point, he didn't care, either. Wherever they were, whatever time it was, they'd worry about that later, after they were out of this hellish place.

"But…"

"Later," he said hurriedly. "After we get out of here."

Erik scanned the room, his senses telling him immediately that something was wrong. There was the overturned chair, pieces of rope still tangled about the arms and legs. On the floor was the tray, its gruesome implements scattered about, a particularly nasty-looking knife near his feet. And there an additional element he hadn't noticed before – piles of dark, grainy powder. His gaze rose up and he saw Rahzoul standing twenty feet from them, impeding their access to the door. He'd wrapped his throat with a cloth that was now soaked in blood, his eyes blazing with demonic fury.

A lighted torch was in Rahzoul's hand and he stood unsteadily. Erik looked again at the powder, remembered the smell he had noticed upon first waking up in the warehouse, and realized that it was gunpowder. Near Rahzoul was a trail of the stuff leading to a stack of barrels over in the corner. On the wall behind the Persian, he could see the faded word: "magazine". The damned place was an old munitions warehouse.

Never taking his eyes from Rahzoul, Erik slowly went to one knee and picked up the knife. "Christine," he said softly, "make no sudden moves, but be ready to run when I tell you." He slowly rose, caught the slight nod from Christine.

"We're leaving," he said louder, to Rahzoul. "You can't stop us."

A crazy grin broke out on the Persian's bloody, damaged face. "Rahzoul? I am not Rahzoul. I am the lord of the four winds, bringer of plague and pestilence!" He waved the torch for added emphasis as he spoke. "I have brought you a gift!" he said with a flourish, showing off the gunpowder. "There's enough for all three of us." He broke into maniacal laughter and threw a handful of gunpowder into the air, waving the torch through the cloud, the gunpowder sizzling and sparkling. His laughter turned into coughing and blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.

"NOW!" Erik yelled to Christine, sensing this to be the moment he'd been waiting for. She dashed past him and towards the door, and Erik dove into Rahzoul as he tried to wrest the torch from the other man and prevent the fuse from being lit.

Rahzoul screamed in anger as they struggled. "No! None of us will leave this building alive!"

Erik tried to use the knife against his foe, but Rahzoul was surprisingly strong. The torch swished through the air and struck the ground as the two men rolled about on the floor in their death struggle. Around them, grains of gunpowder would light and pop like fireworks, creating a surreal, demonic setting.

The Persian's cry tore through the air as Erik grabbed the torch and tossed it in a direction that he hoped would keep it away from the fuse.

Retaliating, the Persian forced Erik onto his back and grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to turn the knife away, back on his attacker. "To the last I grapple with thee," he growled. "From hells' heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee."

"And it _will_ be your last breath," Erik snarled as he fought back.

Somewhere above the sounds of their own life and death struggle, Erik heard voices. Was it Christine? Had she brought help? He looked up at Rahzoul and saw that his foe was weakening, but so was he. His hands began to shake as he struggled to keep hold of the knife, watching the blade come closer to his throat. He feared he would not be able to hold out much longer.

"Stop where you are!" a man called out.

"Don't just stand there, shoot him!" That was Christine.

Erik twisted his head just enough to view the door and almost laughed with joy. There stood Raoul de Chagny, looking every inch the hero. Contrary to earlier rumors, the vicomte was very much alive. A bandage was wrapped round his head and his face was set with an expression of dogged determination. The revolver in his hand was aimed at Rahzoul. "Damn it!" Raoul shouted with exasperation. "They keep moving. I can't get a clean shot."

Before Raoul got the last word out, a flash of fur struck. Erik had no idea how he'd gotten there, but it was Wolf, snarling and attacking, sinking his fangs into the Persian's arm. The knife blade left Erik's throat and Rahzoul tried to direct it towards the animal, but Erik resisted. There was no way he'd allow Rahzoul to injure the dog. The two men continued to grapple. There was growling, and more growling. A shot rang out and Rahzoul fell on top of Erik—dead.

Erik pulled himself out from under Rahzoul's body. Wolf came running over to him, a patch of blood staining his fur. "Come here, boy," Erik said weakly. "Did he knick you, too?"

Ignoring his own injury, Wolf nuzzled Erik, licking his face and hands.

"I missed you too," Erik managed to say, feeling giddy with relief. He looked up and saw Christine running to his side, Raoul right behind her.

"I'd thank you for the help," Erik said to them as Christine went to her knees and put her arms around his neck, "but we need to get out of here—and fast." He pointed to the fuse that had somehow gotten lit during his struggle with Rahzoul.

With Raoul grabbing one arm, and Christine the other, Erik was all but dragged out of the building, Wolf loping along beside them. They found shelter across the street when the barrels exploded. Within minutes, flames were shooting out the windows, lighting the street in the predawn hours. A few people, wakened by the sounds of the explosion, came out and were pointing and shouting. Someone yelled to call out the fire department.

Sitting quietly in the shadows of a doorway of another vacant building, away from the crowd, Erik, Christine, Raoul and Wolf caught their collective breaths.

Raoul looked at Christine. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she said, holding on to Erik, "only a little shaken up. I thought you were dead."

"It takes more than a hit on the head to put a de Chagny out of commission," Raoul explained with more than a little pride.

"Finally, your thick head proves useful," Erik interjected.

"Hush," Christine said gently, holding Erik's hand. "Sit still while we figure a way to get you to a doctor."

Erik looked up at Raoul. "Thank you," he said.

Raoul gave a little snort. "I wasn't trying to save you. I was trying to save Christine," he said, the smirk on his face telling Erik that this wasn't completely true.

"I know," Erik said. "That is what I am thanking you for."

"Land sake, what's going on?"

Everyone turned around to see Mrs. Flynn rushing towards them all a-fluster. She was panting heavily and her face was flushed. Raoul took her by the arm and directed the housekeeper to the little group huddled in the doorway. "I thought I told you to remain out of harm's way," he said.

"She never listens," Erik mumbled, all at once feeling immensely tired.

Mrs. Flynn ignored the vicomte and joined Christine next to Erik. Erik waited for her to react to his face, but the woman displayed nothing more than a moment's look of curiosity. The two of them began tearing more fabric from Christine's skirt, bandaging him up as best they could.

"I guess I'll find us a cab," Raoul said to no one in particular. While the building burned, fire trucks clanged, and gawkers came to see what all the excitement was about, Raoul flagged down a vehicle.

"There's been a terrible accident," he said, pointing to the conflagration. "My friend has been hurt and we need to get him home—the sooner, the better."

The cabbie looked with pleasure at the handful of bills the vicomte waved at him. "No problem, sir," he said with a grin.

-0-0-0-

Several hours later, Erik was resting in bed, as comfortable as possible after having his wounds tended to. Christine was sitting at his side, holding his hand. Raoul had made himself at home, lounging in one of the chairs, the brandy decanter from the study at his side as he tried not to nod off, not wanting to leave until he was certain everything was under control.

Upon their arriving home, Mrs. Flynn had sent for a doctor. "Now, stop your fussing, sir," she'd said when Erik tried to wave off the need of one. "You're a bloody mess." And that was that. Wolf had also been tended to, and was now sporting a bandage wrapped around his middle.

"It looks much worse than it really was," the housekeeper reassured all. "Only a flesh wound. The brave, brave hound," she cooed over Wolf, scratching him behind his ears, while the dog appeared to be smirking at Seamus, who was perched in the windowsill, as usual.

A knock at the door roused Raoul, a sheepish look on his face at having been caught dozing.

"It's Kathleen, sir," the chambermaid said, bringing in a mug of beef broth. "Doctor says you're to drink this, Mr. Duquesne, to build up your strength."

Christine accepted the mug and helped Erik sit up and drink its contents.

Kathleen didn't appear to be quite ready to leave the room, and kept looking at Raoul. "Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Chaney?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

Raoul smiled. "It's Chagny," he corrected her.

Kathleen giggled.

"Thank you for asking, but I don't need anything at the moment."

"Then I'll be going," she said, curtseying and giving the vicomte a wink before leaving the room.

Raoul, noticing that the other occupants in the room were otherwise occupied, excused himself.

-0-0-0-

"I think it's time you got some sleep," Christine said as she plumped up Erik's pillows. "You keep fighting the laudanum. You're supposed to sleep, not stay awake."

He looked up at her face, saw the smudges under her eyes, noted the dress she'd borrowed from Mrs. Flynn to replace her torn one. "You need your rest, too."

"I can sleep in the chair." She pointed to the one vacated by Raoul.

"No," said Erik, a little more forcefully than he had intended. He saw the hurt look on her face. "It's only that, you been through a lot, too. I imagine we both could use a little time—alone."

What he didn't want to tell her was that he was beginning to consider the possibility that she would, in fact, be better off without him. She would never have been put in harm's way if not for him. He was the only reason Rahzoul had come after her, had tormented her.

"I understand," she said sympathetically, giving him a light kiss on his bad cheek. "You've been through a terrible ordeal. You can hardly keep your eyes open."

Erik smiled weakly at her. "Have Raoul take you home." He looked towards the door. "You may have to pry him away from the chambermaid, though."

"Don't worry, I will," she said, leaving Erik to wonder to which she was referring. She leaned over and kissed him again. "I'll be back tomorrow. We can talk then."

He watched her leave, wondering if tomorrow would be the last they would see each other. He knew he had to give her up; it was the only right thing to do. It didn't matter that his heart was breaking. He drifted into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with thoughts of losing Christine all over again.

-0-0-0-


	20. Melancholy

**Author's Note:** Thank you, everyone, for the reviews, and congrats to those of you who picked up my subtle little joke about Chagny/Chaney. It is true that in English, the two names would sound very similar, but Erik, being a Frenchman, would notice those subtle differences and cannot resist the urge to correct people.

* * *

The Way to Love  
**Chapter 19  
****Melancholy **

Erik woke up early and watched the dawn as it broke through thin, wispy clouds, weak light filtering in through the window of his room. The pain medication had worn off several hours ago and now not only did his head hurt, but also his chest hurt, the scorpion stings hurt, and most of all, his foot was throbbing like hell. He looked over at the bedside table and eyed the bottle of laudanum longingly and considered taking another dose, but then decided against it.

In the past, he had partaken of his share of opiates and narcotics. Initially, the drugs had given him a feeling of euphoria, but later, as their effects wore off, Erik had found himself weighted down with melancholy thoughts. Over time, the melancholia had become intolerable, and at last, he gave up the usage of drugs altogether. Last night had been the first time he had taken laudanum in many years, albeit reluctantly.

He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but with no success. So, he threw back the covers and got out of bed. He eyed the chairs by the wall, thinking that perhaps sitting up would help. With careful steps, he made his way across the room.

Wolf, who had refused to leave Erik's side, noticed the activity and looked up, keeping a watchful eye on his master.

"Don't worry, boy. I'm not leaving. I'm just going to sit over here." Wolf, not taking Erik at his word, rose up and followed him.

Erik found the chair didn't help, however, and a few minutes later, he was fumbling with his bandages. He took a peek under the wrappings around his chest. The cut Rahzoul had given him would never have been fatal, but it had been deep enough and long enough to require stitches, and the doctor's handiwork reminded him of a very long, thin millipede crawling across his body. Erik tucked the bandage back in place.

"Just what I need," he mumbled, "more scars."

Then he stared at his foot and eased it up off the floor, resting it atop his other leg, curious to see how bad the damage was in the light of day. As it was, the entire front of his foot was bound in layer upon layer of linen, making his foot twice its normal size. He unfastened the wrappings, unwinding them until at last he could see his big toe and two more beside it. Then, there was an empty space. Where once there had been two toes, the skin was now neatly stitched closed, the surrounding flesh bruised. His stomach lurched, and Erik closed his eyes, forcing down the nausea. It wasn't that he had never seen injuries before, but it was different when they were your own. Memories of how helpless he had felt as Rahzoul's prisoner did not help matters.

"No!" he groaned through clenched teeth, shoving what happened last night into a corner – out of sight, out of mind.

The nausea abated, and he remained seated, his gaze wandering to the window, the light filtering through the lace curtains and creating strange patterns on the floor. He stared at the shapes, then back at his foot. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the chair when a knock on the door roused him from his thoughts.

"Mr. D.? Are you awake?" It was Mrs. Flynn. "I thought I heard you call out."

Erik knew the woman would not leave until she was satisfied that all was well. "I'm fine," he said, hoping his voice would reassure her and that she would leave him alone. "I'm trying to sleep."

"And not doing a very good job of it by the sound of things. Since you're awake, I'll bring you breakfast. No sense making double work."

"I'm not hungry," he said, scrambling to rebandage his foot before she decided to walk in, which, sure enough, she did.

She had a breakfast tray with her, but immediately set it down when she saw what he'd been doing. "Goodness' sake, sir, but you shouldn't be taking those dressings off your poor foot." She kneeled down and quickly fixed the bandages. "I suppose you wanted to see what the doctor did, but for heaven's sake, you should know better than to do something like this," she chided, talking to him as if he were a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"It's _my _foot," Erik said sullenly, the miserable feeling that had come over him taking a firmer grip, and watched distractedly as Mrs. Flynn efficiently finished with the dressings.

Assuring herself that the bandage was securely in place, she got up, brought a small folding table from the closet, and placed it next to him. "Well, as long as you're sitting up, let me bring your breakfast over here," she said, putting the food where he could easily reach it.

He looked at the coddled eggs, toast and coffee, his stomach objecting. "I don't want any breakfast."

"But you need to eat, to build your strength back up."

Erik dismissed her admonishments. What he wanted most at the moment was answers, not food. "How did you and Raoul know where to find us? I don't suppose Rahzoul left you a note with directions."

If Mrs. Flynn heard the sarcasm in Erik's voice, she didn't show it. "Well, sir," she said, talking as if they were old friends, "it was like this. I came home from taking Wolf for his walk as you'd asked and found the front door wide open. I knew right away that something was terribly wrong. Wolf did, too. His nose was in the air, sniffing, and he started getting all antsy."

"Antsy?" Erik despaired of ever understanding English as it was spoken in this country.

"You know, agitated. I called for you but got no answer. I thought that there might be a burglar in the house, so I let Wolf check things out first." Wolf perked up his ears at the mention of his name, and Mrs. Flynn patted the dog on the head as she continued her story. "He headed straight to the parlor, sniffing like he was on the trail. I followed him and my heart sank. A couple of the chairs were overturned and the carpet was scrunched up, as if something had been dragged across it. That must've been you, sir," she added, her voice dropping as she recalled the scene.

"I have no memory of what happened." He saw the quizzical look on her face and explained. "A package arrived. It was supposedly from Christine, but it was a trick. When I opened it, I was pricked with a needle and drugged. When I next woke, I was in the warehouse."

"That would explain it then, I guess," she said. "The messed up room, I mean. But I didn't find any package. The miscreant must've taken it with him."

"Perhaps."

"Where was I? Oh, yes. I was about to dash off and get help when someone came pounding on the door. It was that other Frenchman, Mr. Chaney."

"It's Chagny."

"Yes, that's what I said. Mr. Chaney. Anyway, he was all flustered and excited, and I could see he had a small cut on his temple. I tried to get him to calm down and have a seat, but he kept pacing and going on about someone waiting for him and Miss Daaé, and her being kidnapped. That's when I put two and two together and figured that whatever had happened to all of you had to do with that mysterious man you've been warning me about, the one who was courting Kathleen."

"Why didn't Raoul just go to the police?" Erik asked.

The housekeeper shrugged. "Who knows? People don't always act logical when faced with a crisis. I suppose he thought you'd know better about whom you were dealing with than any policeman would."

Mrs. Flynn went on to say that all during their conversation, Wolf kept demanding their attention. "I told Mr. Chaney how the dog is always tracking you down, even when you leave him at home and go into town. I told him it didn't matter if you took the streetcar or walked, the dog always seems to find you. So, we decided to let Wolf lead the way. And that was how we found the warehouse," she ended, a self-satisfied look on her face.

"Impressive," Erik said, looking down at Wolf, grateful for the dog's tracking skills that used to annoy him. And then it occurred to him; it wasn't just Wolf's tracking skills, it was the animal's loyalty. He looked again at Wolf, admiration in his eyes. "So, you like me. Is that it?" Wolf grinned and nuzzled Erik's hand, and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ears.

"Now then, sir, will you _please_ eat some breakfast?"

Erik ignored her. "I'm not hungry, and I don't want to be pestered any more about eating. In fact, I want you to dismiss the staff."

"What?" she exclaimed, nearly dropping the tray in her hands. "Wh—what are you talking about? Have they done something wrong? Is it Kathleen? Is it something I've done?"

Erik shook his head sadly. "I just… I just don't want anyone around."

"You want me to turn them out, just like that? Beggin' your pardon, Mr. D., but that just isn't right," she said in a huff, her Irish up. "Those people have served you well. You owe them more than just to be thrown out without so much as a by-your-leave."

Erik paused and considered her point. "Give them a month's pay; whatever it takes. I don't care. But get them out of my house."

"But—but they love working here, Mr. D. They'd all feel terrible leaving when you're still mending."

"I don't care to discuss the matter. Just—just do as I have asked."

"Are you sure you're thinking straight?" she asked boldly, her eyes traveling to the laudanum bottle on the table.

Erik read her face, displeased with what he saw. "Perhaps you've forgotten that this is my house? I will not have you or anyone else questioning my judgment," he answered angrily.

She walked over to the tray, picked it up, and headed for the door. "Fine," she snapped back. "Sit there and feel sorry for yourself. Don't give a thought for anyone else's feelings." And she slammed the door behind her.

-0-0-0-

A knock on the door woke Erik from a fitful sleep. After his conversation with the housekeeper, he'd crawled back into bed. "Damn that woman!" he mumbled. "Mrs. Flynn, I thought I told you…" He stopped when he saw Ambrose enter the room.

"You up to some company?"

"Not really," Erik groused.

Ambrose ignored him. "Of course, you are. You just don't want to admit it. Mind if I sit down?"

"Not at all. You're going to do what you want anyway," Erik replied.

Ambrose laughed. "Don't worry. I won't stay too long. I know you're probably tired, but I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you, see if you needed anything."

"Peace and quiet," Erik muttered.

"I thought Mrs. Flynn was exaggerating, but it seems that you _are _in a foul mood today," Ambrose said in his typical light, breezy manner. "Must have something to do with trouble always finding you."

Erik shot the other man a look, wondering exactly what it was that Mrs. Flynn had told him. "Maybe I'm star-crossed. It seems that nothing I do will improve my life. Eventually, I always lose out, no matter how hard I try. Makes me wonder why I bother."

"Hmm, sounds serious. I think I know what the problem is, though." Ambrose stopped smiling. "Erik, listen to me. It's not unusual for a person who's been through a near-death experience to feel depressed in the days that immediately follow. I know what I'm talking about; I saw it enough during the war. You went through hell last night. No, you don't need to fill me in on any details. A person only has to look at you, at your injuries, to know this is true. What I'm trying to say is, don't wallow in that puddle of self-pity too long. It'll drive you mad if you do."

Erik was about to shoot back an angry retort when Christine entered the room. "What is this?" he asked. "Grand Central Depot?"

Ambrose chuckled as his good humor returned. "I think this is my cue to leave you two lovebirds alone," he said, getting up from his chair. He took Christine's hand and, polite as any cavalier, bestowed a kiss upon it. "You don't need an old man like me around here, but I'd best warn you – he's being cantankerous." He winked at Christine, wished them both a good day, and left, whistling cheerily as he walked down the hall.

Christine pulled the chair next to the bed.

"I _can_ get out of bed, you know," he said, nodding towards the other chair in the room. "I'm not a complete invalid."

"Yes, but last night the doctor said you were to stay off your foot as much as possible for the next few days, and I didn't think you wanted the two of us to be shouting across the room at one another. Ambrose was right; you are rather touchy today. Maybe I should leave."

"It might be for the best, Christine. I'm afraid I'm not very good company. I'm…"

"Cranky?" she completed for him. She gave him an understanding look. "It's all right. I've seen your bad moods before, but I'm wondering if I should come back later. I had some questions, but now might not be a good time to ask them."

Erik looked at her sadly. "Would it make a difference?"

"I honestly don't know. I thought about it all last night, considering the possibility that Rahzoul was telling the truth. I tried to comprehend what that would mean to me, but until I hear it from your lips, everything I'm considering is hypothetical. I won't really know how much of a difference it would make until you tell me what really happened back then. I know so little about your past," she said. "You told me a little about when you lived in Persia. That's where you met Rahzoul, isn't it. Last night, he said some terrible things, things I don't want to even think about, but I cannot get them out of my mind. I know he was trying to turn me against you, but I need to know – how much of what _he _said was true?"

"Some," he admitted. "I make no excuses. When I was a young man, I was restless and wandered the continent as an itinerant player. I performed mostly in Eastern Europe and Russia, and built up a reputation as a magician of some renown. I was invited to perform for the Shah of Persia and there was offered an appointment there. It was soon discovered that I had special talents that I could utilize in the service of the Shah and of the Khanum, his mother. The court was a place rife with plots and subterfuge. My job was to secretly weed out enemies of the royal family. Yes, there were times when I had to question men, and sometimes it was not pleasant, but it was a job that needed to be done. It was nothing from which I ever took pleasure. It was Rahzoul who enjoyed the torture."

"Then you—you tortured men?"

"No. I interrogated them; Rahzoul tortured them. I was assigned to him, told to learn from him. It didn't take long for me to realize that he often went beyond what was necessary…that he took an obscene pleasure in inflicting pain upon our prisoners. In time, he manufacturedreasons to arrest people. No one was safe, not even his own wife."

"And that remark about sending the man your bill from the cleaners?"

"I'm no innocent, but I never said that. Again, that was Rahzoul blaming me for his own doings. By the time I left Persia, he had become delusional, paranoid, obsessed with the idea that I had supplanted him in the Khanum's favor. She, too, had begun to notice his excesses, but court politics can be tricky, even for the most adept. Rahzoul came from an ancient family. If he were removed, if he had disappeared, there were people who would avenge him. I knew I had to leave Teheran while I could. I explained the situation to the Khanum and, with her help, made my escape. Even after I'd left Persia, I was not safe, for by then I had become Rahzoul's obsession.

"I lived in hiding. After many years, I thought he had tired of tracking me. I quietly returned to Paris. For a time when I thought I might live an ordinary life, but I was only deluding myself. Whenever I tried, this," he pointed to his face, "got in the way. I always loved music, and managed to find work as a contractor, building the Opera House. But even then, after demonstrating my abilities as a builder, I was shunned because of my appearance." He looked away, shame on his face.

"I'm bad luck, Christine. Wherever I go, misfortune follows me, and this time, my past almost killed you. Now that you know the truth about me, you will want to stay as far away as possible." He halted, fighting his emotions. "Being with you was more beautiful than I ever imagined it would be. I hope you know that I will always…always…wish nothing but happiness for you."

"You mean…you don't want to see me again?"

"I think it would be for the best. There's another man who would make a fine, upstanding husband. You were right, two years ago, to have chosen Raoul. He's a good man. He can provide for you, keep you safe. You'll be happy with him."

Christine shot up from her chair and stormed across the room. She rounded on him, her hands on her hips, her face red with anger. "I don't need you telling me who I should spend my life with, Erik Duquesne. I'm quite capable of making up my own mind these days." Her anger turned to tears. "I thought we had something wonderful between us, something magical, filled with beauty, music and mystery. The most beautiful thing that ever happened to me was when you took me to your house by the lake." She took a ragged breath, trying to stop herself from crying.

"But…"

"Do you have any idea how thrilled I was to hear you sing to me in those days? To have your voice fill my dressing room? And how empty my life was when you left?"

"I…I didn't know…"

"Of course not," she snapped. "You're always thinking of your face, blaming it for keeping you from enjoying your life fully. We both know that isn't true. You've been happy in America." She softened, pleaded with him. "Isn't there room, just a tiny bit of space, for me beside you, here in New York?" She paused, as if assessing him. "Oh. I see. Are there other enemies waiting out there? No?"

"No," he said quietly. "All my other enemies are d—gone."

"Then maybe we _have_ passed the point of no return. It looks as though I am too late. You don't appear to want me anymore, so I shall wish you a good day."

Erik stared at her as she nearly ran to the door and stopped for a moment. Was she waiting for him to call her back? He wanted to, more than anything on earth, he wanted to call her back, but he wouldn't . . . couldn't get himself to say the words. Instead, he watched her leave, believing it better that she hated him, that this was all for the best.

_I hope you're satisfied._

Erik looked around, but he knew he'd see no one. The little voice inside his head that used to harangue him all the time had returned.

"I don't need to be lectured, least of all by my self."

_Apparently you do. All your life, you've bemoaned the fact that you were alone and unloved. You botched your first chance with Christine and then, don't ask me why, but you've been lucky enough to be given a second. So what do you do? You drive her away – again._

"Shut up!"

_You're pathetic. _

"Perhaps," Erik said to himself. "But at least she'll be with a better man."

-0-0-0-


	21. Worthiness

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 20  
Worthiness**

_Two days later_

Erik sat in the parlor, staring at the motes of dust that danced in the shaft of light coming in through the window. Then he looked down at the empty glass in his hand and the near-empty decanter next to him, wondering if he had really drunk that much in such a short time. Or was it a short time?

_A fine example you are. You've been sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself for two days. _

"Example of what, and to whom?" Erik asked himself. "As if anybody cares."

_Look at you! You should be ashamed of yourself. You haven't bathed. You haven't shaved. You haven't changed out of your bedclothes. You haven't eaten. Ever since getting up yesterday morning, you've done nothing but loaf around in your pajamas and dressing gown, sitting in this chair and staring at the four walls. That's right. Sit here and drink yourself into a stupor. Maybe you were right after all. Maybe Raoul de Chagny is the better man. _

"Shut up!"

_Somebody needs to talk some sense into you. _

"I said shut up!"

_Or you'll do what? Break all the crystal?_

Erik angrily clenched the glass and threw it towards the fireplace, enjoying the sound of the glass shattering as it struck the marble. "I don't need to be arguing with myself."

He ignored his inner voice and turned his attention back at the decanter. He desperately wanted to pour himself another drink, but to do so would mean that he would have to get up and fetch a new glass, and his foot was throbbing too badly for him to want to walk on it. He reached for the bell pull as he considered ringing for Mrs. Flynn, but thought better of it.

In spite of his threat to cut off her wages, the damned woman would not leave. "Someone's got to look after you till you come to your senses," she'd said to him point blank, sounding an awful lot like his conscience. If he asked her for another glass, she would, in all probability, give him yet another lecture. It was bad enough listening to his conscience berate him; he didn't need the housekeeper doing it, too.

_Why not? Maybe she can get through to you. I'm certainly not having any luck._

Erik ignored the thoughts that kept plaguing him, and looked over at the circular table. Gleaming back at him in the afternoon light was the watch Joshua gave him. "How did that get there?" Then he remembered. _That _night, he had taken it out of his watch pocket and placed it on the table, before the package arrived, before…

He continued staring at the watch. Without thinking, he got up and hobbled over to the table. He picked up the timepiece and opened the cover, reading the inscription once again, his fingers brushing over the engraved letters.

_He believed you were worthy. Why can't you? _

"I don't want to talk about Joshua," he whispered, but his inner voice paid him no heed.

_Remember what he wrote about you the night he died? "All things considered, I have been blessed. I have had the love of a good woman, and the friendship of two fine men. Erik has been like a brother to me, and Ambrose has been like a father. A man could do worse than being surrounded by people he loves, and who love him in return."_

He pressed his fists against his forehead, trying to quiet the voice. His head had not ached this badly since…since before the surgical operation.

_It's called a hangover, or had you forgotten?_

"Hmph!" Erik picked up the watch and haltingly made his way back to his chair. He wound the stem, setting the watch according to the clock on the mantle, then slipped it into his dressing gown pocket. Wolf, who had been watching the whole time, making sure Erik did not leave the room without him, got up and began to pace. Erik noted the time. Wolf was ready for some exercise. This time, he had no choice but to ring for Mrs. Flynn.

"Wolf needs to be taken for his walk," he said.

"Why don't you do it, then?" she retorted, her tone crusty.

Erik pointed to his foot. "In case you forgot," he snarled.

"Didn't trouble you when you came downstairs lookin' for the key to the liquor cabinet."

"Just…take the dog for a walk."

She gestured to the dog, and Wolf came running, tail wagging eagerly. "Come on, boy. Yer a lot more fun to be around than that ol' Gloomy Gus," she said as she attached the leash. "Let's you and me leave the master to stew in his own juices."

Alone at last, Erik went over to the liquor cabinet and got himself a new glass. He poured out the remaining contents of the decanter and sat back down in his favorite chair. A blur of motion caught his eye and he looked up. Looking back at him from atop the mantle was Seamus, his tail slowly swaying as he glared back with his one good eye.

"What are you staring at, you mangy beast?"

Seamus replied with a noise that sounded like something between a growl and a purr.

"Nobody asked for your opinion."

The cat took this as an invitation, and before Erik could react, Seamus jumped into his lap, knocking the drink out of his hand.

"Why, you filthy…" But Erik never had a chance to finish his tirade. At once claiming his place, Seamus cuddled up in Erik's lap – all 20 pounds of him – and purred contentedly. Without even thinking about it, Erik started petting the cat, his anger having dissipated. "I have made a royal mess of thing, haven't I," he said to the cat.

Seamus responded by purring louder, and that's how Mrs. Flynn found the two of them later when she returned from walking Wolf. She said nothing to Erik, but only slipped the leash off the dog and turned to exit the room.

"Leave the leash," he said.

"As you wish," she replied, wondering what the master was up to now.

-0-0-0-

"For the love of mercy, will you look at yourself? You're a mess!"

Erik turned and saw Ambrose standing in the doorway, saw the look of disgust on the old man's face. "I didn't ask you to come here," he said more angrily than he'd meant to. "Perhaps it's just as well that you came, though," he added, his voice less angry and touched with sadness. He picked up the leash and held it out to Ambrose. "Here. Take this."

Ambrose entered the room, pulled himself up a chair and sat across from Erik – but refused to accept the leash. "You want me to take Wolf?" He laughed at the idea. "This is some kind of joke, right? As if Wolf would stay with me. You and I both know that within an hour, he'd be back here. He knows where he wants to be, and that's with you."

"He'd…he'd be better off with you," Erik answered weakly.

"Of all the stupid…" Ambrose sighed. "I guess it's time to speak bluntly, so don't say a word, just sit and listen. Do I have your attention? Good. Remember two years ago, when you first arrived in New York? Well, I didn't pull your sorry hide out of the gutter that day so that later you could mope about and feel sorry for yourself. What are you, a quitter? What would Miranda say if she saw you like this? What would Joshua say?"

Erik gnashed his teeth in frustration at the mention of their names. "That's not fair, bringing them into this," he said, no longer angry, only sad. His eyes moistened as he thought of his late friend. He pulled the watch out of his pocket.

"Life ain't always fair, either," said Ambrose. "That's why, when you get a second chance to make things right, you deserve to be kicked in the ass if you pass it up. You're still feeling sorry for yourself instead of making love to the prettiest woman I ever saw, a woman who has nothing but love for you in her heart, but you're too pig-headed to see it. If she can accept you, why can't you accept yourself? Listen to me, son. I told you before that it's not unusual for a man to feel down in the dumps after almost gettin' hisself killed. It's not easy, dealing with the aftermath, but deal with it you must. You can't give in to baser feelings, Erik. That's one slippery slope you want to avoid at all costs."

Erik put his elbows on his knees and cradled his forehead in his hands. He raised his head slightly and saw Ambrose watching intently for some kind of reaction to his lecture. "You don't understand," he said hopelessly. "I have nothing left to live for. I've driven away Christine, at last."

"Are you sure?"

Erik replied with a bitter laugh. "I should be."

"Sounds like you're giving up. Is that what you want to do?"

"It's not a matter of what _I _want, but what is right." Erik paused and took a deep breath. "Besides, since when did you become an expert in matters of love?"

Ambrose made a show of pulling out his pocket watch and checking the hour. "How much time do you have? Look here, I may be an old man, but I know a thing or two about love. I haven't lived in a monastery, you know. I've known my share of women, and had my heart broken a few times. I also know _that_ look, the one that's on her face when she looks at the man she loves. Your Christine has that look whenever you're near, whenever she talks about you."

Erik shook his head. "My Christine? I have no... Christine."

Ambrose harrumphed and frowned. "Have you been listening to me? I'll say one thing for you – you are the stubbornest cuss I've ever known; I'll give you that, Erik Duquesne."

"I didn't ask you to come here. I didn't ask you to be my friend."

The old man was undaunted. "But I am, whether you like it or not. Oh, go ahead and growl and snarl, but I think what you really want is for someone to listen to you. So go ahead – rant and rave – and when you've calmed down, we'll talk."

"A-about what?" Erik asked tentatively.

"Let's start with Christine. Why don't we start with her, and why you feel you feel so undeserving?"

Erik knew further resistance was futile. "Where do I start?"

"The beginning's usually a good place."

And so Erik told of how he had lived a life of solitude for many years. Without going into too much detail, he explained that he had lived in Persia as a young man, but had been forced to leave because of Rahzoul's scheming, and that after leaving Persia, he'd found himself shunned by society. Music was often the only thing that brought him comfort, and that it was through music that he met Christine.

Erik explained how three years ago he had befriended the young orphaned girl, and that his feelings had grown from friendship to love. But then her old childhood friend, Raoul de Chagny, had shown up and Erik had allowed his temper and demanding nature to drive her into the vicomte's arms. Remaining in Paris, in the same city as the two of them, was out of the question, and so he came to New York.

"When she came here, I thought I was being given a second chance. But Raoul has followed her, and with what happened with Rahzoul, there's no way she would choose me over de Chagny."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he can give her everything that I cannot," Erik moaned. "How can I compete against him? Look at him. He's wealthy."

Ambrose gave a tiny grin as he did a quick look around the room. "You're not exactly poor, my friend. Although it's true that things are a bit dusty at the moment."

Erik grimaced at the mention of the condition of the house. At that moment, he knew that Ambrose was going to win this battle. In fact, he wanted to lose, but he wasn't ready to give in so easily, if only to save what little pride he felt he had left. "He's got a title, comes from noble family."

"Pish," said Ambrose disdainfully. "That's got nothing to do with the man himself. Having a fancy title doesn't make him a better person. Remember, over here we did away with kings, have no truck with aristocrats."

"They have a history together. They've known each other since childhood."

"And you were her voice teacher."

"Look at our ages. I…I probably remind her of her father."

"Ha!" Ambrose laughed. "That was no daughter's loving gaze she was giving you the other night."

"He's…he's handsome?" Erik offered weakly.

"He's got you there."

Erik shot an evil glare at Ambrose, but the older man shrugged it off.

"Give the girl some credit, though. If all Miss Daaé was looking for was a pretty face to hitch up with, would she have been seeing you at all? The two of you got off on the wrong foot back in Paris, true, but people change. The two of you have already proved that."

"I should just bow out of the picture, let him marry her and be done with it."

"And what are you going to do the rest of your life? Sit here and grow bitter over what could have been?"

That stung. "What would you have me do?"

"I don't know," Ambrose replied. "Apologize to her? Tell her how you really feel? Maybe…romance her?"

"Romance her?" Erik repeated, as if the thought were brand new.

"In a manner of speaking. Let me ask you this. Have you told her how you feel about her? Have you told her that you love her?"

"She can see that, surely."

"Sure, she can see things, but she needs to hear them from you. First, though, you need to pull yourself up by the bootstraps, get cleaned up, and let that little lady know what's in your heart."

"But…but, are you sure?"

"You are about as thick-skulled and pig-headed as they come sometimes. Let me see if I can put this in words that you can understand. It isn't logic Christine needs, and if I have to tell you that, then you really don't deserve her. Ask yourself, what is it that she likes about you?"

_Listen to him, you fool. What is it that drew Christine to you in the first place? Logic? Reason? No, it was romance, it was mystery and magic that appealed to her. In your heart of hearts, you must know that she has always been as much of a romantic as you are, even though you've tried to hide it. _

He considered Raoul de Chagny. From what he had seen of the man since his reemergence on the scene, he'd struck Erik as a person who was all practicality and bottom lines. He understood that the vicomte was offering Christine a good life, a life of wealth and position…but he did not recall Christine ever using the words love and romance in the same breath whenever she spoke of Raoul. He suspected that Raoul was steady – but boring.

_That's right, Erik! Be the exciting man. Be her Dark Tale from the North!_

Suddenly the world brightened, and Erik even allowed himself to smile. "I never realized you were so experienced in matters such as these."

Ambrose shrugged and grinned. "I know what women want, and believe me, it isn't learning how to tie nautical knots while sitting in front of the fireplace – even if that fireplace is in a grand chateau. That little songbird of yours, she has fire in her eyes. I warrant she can teach you a few things about knots."

The two sat in companionable silence for several minutes, and then Ambrose turned towards the doorway. "I don't know," he said to someone out of view. "Do you think I got through to him?"

"Who are you talking to?" Erik asked. "Mrs. Flynn?"

"Muriel? No, she's out in the kitchen last I saw." Ambrose got up and went into the hallway and escorted Christine back into the room with him. "I was talking to Miss Daaé here. She came by earlier this morning, worried to death about you, crying her eyes out because she couldn't figure out what in tarnation she did this time to anger you."

Erik looked in the doorway, his face stricken with guilt, fear, and shame. "Christine? Wh-what are you doing here?"

She cast a beguiling smile in his direction. "Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to make me stand in the doorway?"

Remembering his manners at last, he asked her in. Ambrose rose and cheerfully offered his chair, saying he was just as comfortable standing.

"I came here because, after talking with Mr. Rice, and doing a lot of thinking on my own, I've come to an important decision. This afternoon, I wired my resignation to my managers in Paris. I've decided to stay here, in New York. I wanted you to be the first to know that I'm free, Erik. Free to make my own decisions."

"But, Christine! How could you? It's everything you ever dreamed of! Everything you wanted! Everything you worked so hard to attain!"

"You foolish, foolish man! How can you say that? Nothing, no one is more important to me than you are!"

Erik shook his head." I can't let you do this..." He leapt to his feet, startling the cat, which meowed loudly and jumped back up on the mantle. Infuriated, Erik approached Christine with balled fists, and then stopped. "I don't suppose you are the least bit intimidated by that performance just now," he said ruefully.

"Not really. What were you supposed to be, some kind of limping demon?"

"Something like that," Erik said with a grimace. "Asmodeus, the limping devil, I'm not; more like a ridiculous hobgoblin.

Even Christine could see the humor in the situation and tried to hide the smirk on her face. "Or a Swedish gnome?" she asked almost playfully, then turned serious again. "Sit down, Erik," she said as she got up and pushed him back down into his chair. "What do you mean you can't let me? I'll do as I please, thank you very much! And you," she said, poking him in the chest for emphasis, "will not only _not _tell me what I can and cannot do, _you'll like it_!" Before he could reply, she leaned forward and kissed him soundly.

"I believe this is our cue to leave," said Ambrose to Mrs. Flynn, who had come to see what all the commotion was about. The two of them were grinning like fools. "I don't think I'll be needing this," Ambrose said as he tossed the leash aside Then, to Mrs. Flynn, "What do you say the two of us go out for a bite to eat and leave these two to work things out between 'em?"

"Sounds like a dandy idea. And while we're out, I can stop by and let the help know they should report back to work tomorrow."

Erik turned to the housekeeper, surprised and a little ashamed. "Do you…do you think they'll want to come back? After I let them go?"

"Nobody got let go, sir" the housekeeper said. "I jus' told them to take a few days off while you got yer head back on straight."

"Excellent thinking, Mrs. Flynn," Christine said, winking at the woman.

"You'll make an honest man out of him, won't you, miss?"

"I'll do my best."

"Then come, Ambrose. You an' me got some things of our own to take care of." They left the house arm in arm without a backwards glance, snickering conspiratorially at the turn of events in the parlor.

Christine sat on Erik's lap, and he looked back at her, dazzled and still a little confused. "I see. Well. Now that you've explained matters to me, I can see that there are certain advantages to having you here in New York."

"Erik, let's get this straight. I don't intend to stay here as your friend, or as your nurse. I intend to marry you."

"Marry…me? But Christine! I'm no good for you. I…I have a terrible temper. I drink too much. And I…I…well, look at me!"

"I've suffered your wrath, I know you don't normally drink too much, and I've seen you head to toe, naked as the day you were born. Is there anything else I should know? Besides, you heard me promise Mrs. Flynn to make an honest man out of you."

"What about Raoul?"

"What about him?"

"Shouldn't you say something to him…about us?"

"He already knows. Besides, he's shipping out soon. He's going to be returning to France in a few weeks. There's another expedition leaving at the end of the year, and he told me he wants to head this one. It's rather hard for a man to be both married and at sea for years at a time." She pursed her lips as she thought of something. "I wonder if that chambermaid of yours knows he's planning on leaving."

"Who? Kathleen? I'm sure Raoul will do the right thing by her. He's really not so bad."

"I'm glad you think so. No, I have no intentions of marrying him, but he is an old friend. I'd hate to see you get all worked up if he decided to call now and then."

"I thought you said he'll be shipping out soon."

"I did."

"Then we won't have to worry about unexpected visits. Good. Now that we've got them out of the picture, we can continue talking about…other things."

"Other things…like this?" she said as she held up her left hand, pointing to her ring finger.

He slipped the gold band off his little finger. "When I found this on the rooftop three years ago, I never imagined that fate would bring me this second chance to offer it to you again." Erik eased Christine off his lap and slipped out of the chair. Awkwardly dropping down on one knee, he held it out to her. "Christine Daaé, will you do me the great honor of accepting my proposal of marriage?"

"It's about time! I was beginning to wonder what I'd have to do to…" Her words were lost as Erik stood up and pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Closing his eyes, he could feel her lips upon his. He wanted not only her lips against his, but to feel her body next to his, to bury his face in her neck, to inhale her fragrance. Their lips touched, and she responded with a moan of satisfaction as the sensation of her body pressing against his set him on fire. His fingers danced over the silken skin of her neck and her shoulders, while she teased his jaw with her tongue. Her hair slid against his cheek and neck, tickling him. She cupped his head to her, his whiskers brushing against her swollen lips.

"Erik?" she said breathlessly when at last they parted.

"Yes, my love?"

"Will you do one thing for me?"

"Anything, my love."

"Will you go upstairs and clean up? You smell like a distillery."

-0-0-0-


	22. Romance

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 21  
Romance**

While Erik was upstairs, Christine set about tidying up the parlor. She picked up the broken glass from the parlor floor, and then checked the kitchen to see what there might be to eat. By the time Erik returned, she had a small meal set out for them.

"I hope you're hungry," she said. "I couldn't find much, but managed to scrounge up some leftovers. I've got some coffee percolating, as well. It should be ready soon."

All it took was the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee to set Erik's stomach growling as he realized it had been two days since he'd eaten anything substantial. "Mmm...smells like a feast!"

"Do you mind eating here, in the kitchen? I thought that with only the two of us it might be…more intimate." The smile on her face was almost shy.

"If it pleases you," he replied, "then it pleases me." He walked haltingly over towards the table, trying to disguise his limp by using his walking stick.

"Where ever did you get that?" she asked, pointing to the stick with its silver skull and entwining serpent.

"This? Oh, it's nothing. Just an old prop I picked up back at the Garnier."

"Impressive," she said, but from the tone of her voice, Erik couldn't tell if she was really impressed, or just teasing.

He decided it wasn't worth pursuing and allowed the subject to drop when he caught her approving looks out of the corner of his eye, at his shaved face, the clean mask in place, and his rumpled dressing gown replaced by a clean suit of clothes. The only thing out of place was the lack of shoes on his feet. Even his slippers wouldn't fit over the bulky bandages, so he gave up worrying about which pair of shoes to wear and pulled a stocking over his injured foot and wore a house slipper on the other. He smiled back at her. "Better?" he asked, indicating the clothes with a small flourish.

"Much better!"

He pulled a chair out for her, but she stopped him. "Wait; let me get the coffee first." She walked over to the stove and, grabbing a potholder, brought the coffee to the table and poured them each a cup. "Cream and sugar?"

Erik shook his head. "No, I think I'd better drink it black for now. You know, clear up those pesky cobwebs?"

She agreed.

As they sat at the table, engaging in small talk, Erik finally came to accept that Ambrose, and that nagging voice that liked to pester the hell out of him when he made a mess of things, were right about Christine – that she deserved to be properly courted. His mind was made up. This time, he would do things right. There would be no rushing, no forcing. They would take their time and get to know each other, and that would start now, with the two of them conversing amiably over dinner.

_The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost._

Well, he'd lost Christine once, and nearly lost her a second time. But things were different now. He was different now, and he was going to prove to Christine that he was, at last, worthy of her love.

-0-0-0-

As promised, Mrs. Flynn had the staff back to work the following day. That morning, they set to work getting things in order; by evening, the majority of the rooms were cleaned, and by the end of the week, nobody would ever have guessed that anything had been amiss.

Erik gave Mrs. Flynn the key to the liquor cabinet. "I am returning the keys to the cabinet to you, since I no longer require it. Keep a decanter filled, should I want something to drink before supper or if a friend calls."

"A friend?" the housekeeper asked, puzzled as Erik had thus far had very few callers.

He paused momentarily, wondering at his own words. "I do have friends."

"Ah, yes. Not to worry, Mr. D. I'll be glad to take care of these for you."

-0-0-0-

A few days later, Erik was surprised when Kathleen, the chambermaid, requested to speak to him.

"I want you to know that it's very sorry I am for havin' fallen for that viper's smooth-talkin' lies," she said as she stood before him in the parlor, meek as a lamb. "I admit, I was bedazzled by him, but when I look back at what happened to you and your lady, and how it could have been worse? I..." She faltered as tears began trailing down her cheeks. "I...it was all my fault."

Throughout her monologue, Erik looked at Kathleen, really looked at her for the first time and saw that she was, in fact, still a girl. "It's...it's all right. You didn't know," he tried to reassure her, but Kathleen only cried harder.

"I shoulda known, sir," she sniffed. "I shoulda known he had, what do you call 'em? Interior motives for callin' upon me, a poor shanty Irish girl who was lookin' beyond her station." She picked up the corner of her apron and wrung it in her hands.

"It's ulterior," Erik corrected her.

"Pardon, sir?" she asked as she wiped her face with her apron.

"Never mind. Here, use this." He handed her his fine linen handkerchief.

"Thank you, sir," she said, and blew her nose loudly. "Now I'm worryin' that I'll never make me a good match. That I've lost me a good post. That I'll die an old maid." She gave another blow into the hankie.

"I'm not turning you out, if that what you've been worrying about."

"Yer...yer not?" she asked, brightening.

"And as for becoming a spinster, you are far too young and pretty to worry about that. How old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen, sir. Soon to be eighteen. Almost past me prime." She dabbed at her eyes for effect.

Erik forced himself to stifle a laugh. "I don't think you're...past your prime." _Coming into it is more like it,_ he thought, suspecting that one day Kathleen would make some young swain very happy. "But I would strongly suggest that you, uhm, mend your ways."

"Yes, sir! I will, sir!" She cast a shy smile towards Erik and said, "You know, sir, that Mr. Chaney fellow's kind of nice. Don't you think so, sir? I mean, a girl could do a lot worse than him."

"It's Chagny."

"Yes, sir," she said, bobbing in a curtsey, her spirits significantly lifted. "I suppose I should be goin' back to work now. There's lots of things need to be done."

"Yes, I'm sure there are," Erik said, indicating that the interview was concluded. Once Kathleen was out of the room, Erik laughed to himself. "Now wouldn't that be the perfect ending to all of this – the chambermaid and the vicomte. I wonder of de Chagny has any idea what's in store for him."

-0-0-0-

Having made up her mind that she would not be returning to Paris, Christine leased a suite in one of the new, fashionable apartment buildings that overlooked Central Park. "I value my privacy," she explained. "Besides, I'm accustomed to living on my own, and I rather like the idea of _you_ calling for _me_," she added with a wink.

"But, what about the doorman, the maid, the desk clerk? Surely they will all know who comes and goes, and when. These apartment buildings are well staffed."

"You know what I mean, and if you feel too self-conscious about visiting me, you can always use the service elevator," she said suggestively and left it at that.

It was mid-fall. The air was crisp, the skies were bright blue, and the foliage was gorgeous. Erik and Christine enjoyed carriage rides through Central Park, admiring the beauty of the landscaping, enjoying each other's company. Sometimes, there were dinners at stylish restaurants while other time, private, more intimate suppers at Erik's house. There were also shows and concerts to attend. Through it all, a growing need was developing between them. More than once, Erik wondered how much longer he could hold out, but he was determined to be patient, to wait until Christine indicated that she was ready.

Winter approached, and with it colder temperatures and snow. The ponds in Central Park froze up, and soon ice skaters were out in force. Erik gave in to Christine's wish that the two of them go ice-skating.

"It reminds me of my childhood near Stockholm," she said.

"I think it would be better if I sat on the bench and kept Wolf company. I'll enjoy watching you. You are a vision of loveliness, a veritable queen of the North. Besides, I can't skate. My foot…"

But Christine would not accept his pleadings. "No excuses, Erik Duquesne. Your foot has healed and you're walking without any difficulty. Wolf is perfectly happy to sit off to the side and play with the children. There's no reason why you can't at least try."

The adorable pout on her lips did him in, and he acquiesced. "Very well, but if I fall…"

"If you fall, you won't be the first, and I'll be there to catch you."

Ice skating was a completely new experience for Erik, and while he wobbled at first, Christine glided across the ice like a winter sprite. There were a few tumbles and spills, and more than once the two of them would end up sitting on the ice, laughing at how foolish they must have looked, while Wolf sat and wondered what all the fuss was about. Soon, Erik became more adept in the art of balancing his weight on thin blades, and in no time at all was mastering some of the more intricate moves.

He no longer worried about whether people stared at him and his mask. He accepted that people would always look, but he no longer cared. As long as he had those who were most important to him – Christine, Ambrose, even Mrs. Flynn and the staff…and the animals – he didn't care. He was determined to fully embrace the new life that began when he stepped off the ship two years ago.

-0-0-0-

_Two weeks before Christmas…_

Erik stood in the music room looking out the window, watching flurries as they fell lazily to the ground. During the night, about five inches of the white, fluffy flakes had fallen, blanketing the city and, for a short time at least, gave it a clean, fresh look. The bulk of the snowstorm had blown itself out to sea, and Erik smiled at the prospect of hiring a sleigh to take Christine and him for a ride through Central Park.

A knock at the door drew his attention from the scene outside. "Come in, Mrs. Flynn."

The housekeeper entered. "I was wonderin', Mr. D., if I might have a word with you?"

"It looks as though you already are," he said, unable to resist the urge to be a little mischievous.

"Yes, sir. What I mean, sir, is – are you planning on fixin' the place up a bit for Christmas?"

"Christmas? I don't understand."

The woman looked shocked. "You mean to tell me you don't know what Christmas is?"

"Of course I know what Christmas is. I haven't been living under a rock...that is, I only meant I wasn't aware that anything needed 'fixing up' for the occasion." The perplexed look on the housekeeper's face wasn't going away. "Tell me what you had in mind."

"I was thinkin' a tree would look nice in this room, and some pine roping around the fireplaces. Oh, and some wreathes on the doors. Things like that." A little frown creased her forehead as a thought occurred to her. "You don't want folks thinkin' you're some kind of heathen, do you? Or, worse yet, a Scrooge?"

"A Scrooge?"

"You really were living under a rock if you haven't heard of Ebenezer Scrooge! I'm talking about Mr. Dickens' book, _A Christmas Carol_."

"Oh. _That_ Scrooge. No, it wouldn't do to be thought of in that manner." He looked around the room, imagining how the whole house would look with the halls all decked out for the holidays. "I suppose you have a point. When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

"What have Romans got to do with any of this?"

"Nothing. I was merely…never mind. May I rely upon you to oversee this in your usual efficient manner?"

The housekeeper beamed. "Now there, Mr. D. You needn't sweet-talk me to do this for you."

"But it doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked. This was the woman who had dressed his wounds, had refused to leave him to his own devices when he'd been feeling down, and through it all, a bond of friendship had formed. "Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. I don't know what I would do without you. By the way, how's Kathleen doing these days?"

"Bless you, sir, for askin'. The dear girl was so distraught for a while. Whatever it is you told her, it picked her right back up. That, and the fact that her French gentleman caller's decided to stay in New York for the winter."

"De Chagny's still here? In New York?"

"Yes, sir. By the way, Mr. D., are you planning on having a big Christmas dinner? You could invite Mr. Chaney, seeing as he'll be away from his home and family." She saw the tiny scowl forming on Erik's face. "Now then, sir, remember what he did for you? It's the least you could do in return."

The scowl disappeared as an idea formed, but he needed to think the matter out. He smiled politely at the housekeeper. "Thank you, Mrs. Flynn, for reminding me about Christmas – and de Changy. If that is all, then I shall allow you to return to your duties."

-0-0-0-


	23. Christmas Presents

**The Way to Love  
****Chapter 22  
****Christmas Presents**

Erik and Christine sat on the front porch of his house, the two of them admiring their handiwork. The previous night, more snow had fallen and Christine thought that this would be a good opportunity to instruct Erik in the art of snowman building. Erik protested at first, claiming such activities were a waste of time, but after some gentle arm-twisting, he gave in and suggested that they each build their own. When they finished, they would judge each other's work. For the past hour, they had worked hard and were now discussing the relative merits of each other's creation.

Mrs. Flynn, an afghan wrapped around her shoulders, came out bearing a tray with a pot of steaming hot cocoa and three mugs. She poured out the warming beverage, handing one mug to Erik, one to Christine, and one for herself.

"I still don't see what you find so…so fascinating about building a man of snow," Erik groused.

Christine slapped his shoulder playfully. "It's supposed to be fun," she said. "Didn't you ever build a snowman when you were a child?"

Erik made a sour face. "I never had time to indulge in such frivolities when I was young."

"Maybe that's why you're so grumpy sometimes," Christine observed with a laugh.

"Could be," added Mrs. Flynn.

Erik bristled, and then realized that the two women were teasing him. The dark mood lifted almost immediately. "I don't need you joining in with Christine and ganging up on me, Mrs. Flynn. You're the hired help, remember?"

"Pshaw!" she said. "You're all bluster, Mr. D., and you know it."

"Is that how the rest of the staff see me?"

"Tis not my place to say," she replied, affecting her most innocent look.

"What do you think, Mrs. Flynn?" Christine looked up at the housekeeper, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her blue eyes sparkling with good humor. "Which snowman is better?"

The housekeeper looked first at Christine's snowman. It was built in the traditional manner, with two large balls of snow forming the body, a smaller one the head, arms made of twigs, a couple pieces of coal for eyes, and a carrot sticking out in place of a nose. Then she looked at Erik's. "What's that supposed to be, Mr. D.?"

Offended, he glared back at her. "It's a work of art."

"Could have fooled me," she replied while Christine sat back, stifling a giggle. "Looks more like something that fell apart."

Erik scowled. "It's obvious that neither of you appreciates fine art. That, dear ladies, happens to be a replica of the statue of Apollo that adorns the roof of the Paris Opera."

"If you say so." The housekeeper turned to Christine. "Miss Daaé, your snowman is most definitely the better of the two."

Ignoring the two women, Erik looked about for the dog. "Where's Wolf?" He called for the canine and was greeted with an explosion of snow that erupted in front of them as the animal came bounding through a large drift and smack into Erik's snowman, promptly decapitating Apollo. He rushed up onto the porch, snow covering his thick, winter coat, which he promptly deposited on the three humans as he shook himself off.

"Looks like you've been exploring the property," Christine said to Wolf. He responded by nuzzling his cold nose against her neck while she hugged him in return. "What were you doing? Sniffing out the rabbit trails?" Wolf grinned at her and wagged his tail.

"I believe that's a yes," Erik said, amused at the dog's antics. If Wolf loved Erik, it was becoming obvious that he absolutely adored Christine, who always made sure she brought him a tidbit when she visited. He turned his attention back to the housekeeper.

"Mrs. Flynn, how are things going regarding the dinner?" Between Mrs. Flynn and Christine, the ladies had persuaded him, against his better judgment, not only to host a formal dinner on Christmas Day, but also to invite Raoul.

"It is a bit of a short notice, but Cook has assured me that the feast will be one of which you will be proud. Fortunately, it's only a small gathering. Now, if you'd have told us you were planning a meal for twenty or so, we might have had a wee bit of a problem with that. Speakin' of which, I'd better get back in and see how Kathleen's progressing with the decorations."

Erik glanced over at Christine. "I still don't know why I let you talk me into inviting de Chagny."

"Partly, because it is the season to be charitable, but also because Raoul helped us. Besides, whom else does he know in New York? At least this way, he'll be among friends."

"Friend," he corrected. "Singular."

"Need I remind you of the fact that while Raoul could have told the whole sordid story to the authorities, he didn't? Thanks to his silence, the destruction of the warehouse was written off as an accident started by a vagrant whose remains were found within the wreckage."

"True," he conceded grudgingly.

"And we can also thank the explosion and fire for leaving no evidence left behind, nothing to indicate the presence of that ghastly chamber. And those horrid bugs." She shivered. "I'm not the least bit sorry that were destroyed," Christine added with relief. "Not that grasshoppers would be out of place in this part of the world, but scorpions?"

"If any escaped, I suspect we would have heard about it by now. So, no reports of scorpions is good."

Off in the distance, a church bell was ringing the afternoon hour, prompting Erik to pull out his watch.

"Do you need to go somewhere?" Christine asked.

Erik made a face. "Unfortunately, yes. I lost all track of time and forgot that I'm supposed to meet with Ambrose. We're going over holiday plans for the patients and their families. Many of them have little or no money. Without the infirmary to help them, they'd have nothing."

Christine reached over and placed a hand on Erik's cheek, then leaned over and kissed him. "You truly are a changed man," she said, her warm breath blowing gently against his skin. "Do you have time to escort me back to my apartment building?"

"If I had my way, I'd not only escort you, but spend a few hours with you," he said, his tone suggestive.

"Well, I don't want to keep you from your good works, so I shall settle for the escort. As for the other? Perhaps…another day?"

He pulled her closer and kissed one cheek, and then the other. Then he kissed her lips. "Count on it, my love."

After escorting Christine back to her apartment, Erik made his way to the infirmary. He was happy, and he wanted everyone else to be happy, too. He dropped money into the Salvation Army kettles. He bought roasted chestnuts from street urchins. He mailed an anonymous donation to the local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

Even Ambrose noticed Erik's happiness and complimented him on the change. "How good to see that the holiday spirit has infected you."

"You wouldn't expect anything less from me," Erik replied.

"You're right. I wouldn't. Now, let's go over these plans."

-0-0-0-

_To my dearest friend, Erik, _

_I hope that this letter finds you well. I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to read of your engagement to Miss Daaé in your last letter. I wish I could be there to tell you in person, as I know how difficult life has been for you. No, you never had to tell me a word, but when you would visit Joshua and me, I could see it in your eyes. But I knew even then that you have a heart great enough to contain the whole world, if only you allow yourself to do so._

_In looking at the calendar, it is hard to believe that it has been over a year since Joshua's death. I'm pleased to at last throw off my widow's weeds. Somber colors do not suit me. It is a joy to once again wear bright colors. Do not misunderstand me. I will always love and cherish Joshua's memory, but I cannot live in the past._

_Now that I am no longer wearing grays and blacks, Mr. Hopkins, a neighbor and a widower, has asked if he may call upon me. I have given him my permission…_

"Mr. D.? Miss Daaé is here."

Erik looked up from Miranda's letter. "Thank you, Mrs. Flynn," he said to the housekeeper, both acknowledging her announcement and dismissing her at the same time. He rose to welcome Christine, who made her usual rounds, first greeting Seamus, who stared back at her, his feline expression as enigmatic as ever, and then scratching Wolf behind the ears. For Erik, there was a "hello" kiss.

She glanced at the letter laying open on the tabletop. "Who's Miranda?" she asked, noticing the signature. "Do I have to worry about another woman taking you from me?"

"No, Christine; there is no woman for me but you. Miranda Lathrop is a friend, though; a very dear friend." And he told her about the Lathrops, of the deep friendship that grew between him and the wounded veteran, and showed her the watch he always wore. And he told her of the heartbreak of Joshua's death.

"I'm learning to like this new Erik more and more," she said when he finished. "I don't think the one I knew in Paris would have cared about a disabled ex-soldier."

Erik gave her a sheepish grin. "I don't think so, either. I wish you could have known them," he said wistfully. "They were very special people. I learned a great deal from them. When Miranda told me she was going to go live with her sister, I promised her that I would see to it that Joshua's grave is properly cared for."

"Perhaps, one day, you can take me with you when you go?" she asked.

"You would actually wish to go to the cemetery with me?"

"I really would. I, too, would like to pay my respects to the person who helped change your life."

-0-0-0-

_Christmas Day_

The event Erik had been dreading arrived – Christmas Day and dinner. A vision in red velvet, Christine played hostess that day. There was only a small gathering that afternoon – Erik, Christine, Raoul de Chagny, Ambrose Rise, and Christine's current manager, a rotund little man named Bartolomeo Della Valle – but Christine told Erik that she hoped it would be the first of many such gatherings, and that as their circle of friends grew, so would these special occasions.

Signor Della Valle thanked Erik profusely for inviting him, a stranger, to Christmas dinner, and was both surprised and pleased to learn that his diva's fiancé was a man of music. He confessed to having been secretly fretting that La Daaé, as he insisted upon calling Christine, would end up forsaking her art altogether. When Christine explained that Erik had been her first voice teacher, the manager was even more impressed.

"Used to tell her he was her 'Angel of Music'," Raoul said under his breath as he twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. He wasn't exactly drunk, but several glasses of the excellent vintage being served were beginning to loosen his tongue.

Christine tensed and reached under the table for Erik's hand. Erik, ignoring Christine's silent plea, cocked a brow at the vicomte. "I'm sorry, de Chagny," he said. "Were you saying something…important?"

"No," Raoul replied a touch too quickly, embarrassed at having been caught thinking out loud. "Just commenting on the Christmas tree…over in the music room. Was saying how lovely it looks with…with all those angels decorating it."

"Is that so," Erik smirked, not believing Raoul for a minute.

"Yes. Yes, it is so," the vicomte retorted.

A sharp kick to the shin kept Erik from making a further commotion over the matter. Reining in his resentment, he turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him and smiled. "They were Christine's idea," he said, nodding towards his fiancée.

"That's what I thought," Raoul said, returning his concentration to the fine turkey dinner.

Ambrose smiled politely, noticing that even after what the two had been through recently, neither man was willing to give the other an inch. But disaster was averted, and the conversation soon turned to more general topics. Throughout the meal, Kathleen made sure that "Mr. Chaney" wanted for nothing. She would smile prettily as she filled his glass, her hand often brushing against his. Raoul, in turn, would smile back. Even a blind man could have seen that silent and not-so-secret messages were passing between them.

At last, the feast was over and the table cleared. Christine, practicing what would soon be her duty as hostess of the house once she and Erik were married, invited everyone, including the staff, into the music room. There, at her insistence, Erik played the piano while everyone sang a few carols. Afterwards, presents were handed out. There were warm woolen shawls for Cook and for Kathleen, and a special present for Mrs. Flynn, an antique broach that had caught Erik's eye one day when shopping for Christine's gift.

"Why, it's lovely, Mr. D., but…but you didn't have to go out of yer way like this."

"On the contrary, Mrs. Flynn," he said, the ghost of a smile showing on the unmasked side of his face. "If not for your persistence, I might still be sitting alone in the parlor."

She chuckled. "If you hadn't been so stubborn in the first place, I wouldn't have had to be so persistent."

No one was left out that day. For Ambrose, there was an elegant fountain pen and mechanical pencil. "A Waterman," Ambrose said appreciatively, admiring the handsome set. "Thank you, my friend."

Signor Della Valle, surprised at being included in the gift giving, was presented with a handsome watch fob, and Raoul was taken off guard when Erik presented him with a present as well. "What's this?" he asked cautiously, looking for all the world as if the wrapped box would bite.

Christine giggled while Erik shrugged. "Open it and find out," he said

Raoul did just that, and found a British captain's brass sextant with a hardwood case.

"And don't go getting any ideas that this means we're friends. I only bought it because Christine insisted. She seems to have this idea in her head that it would have been in bad form for me to give presents to everyone…but you."

"It's quite…handsome," Raoul said as he took the instrument out of its box and looked it over. "Quite handsome, indeed."

"It will help you find your way back to France. Wouldn't want you to get lost at sea with all those mermaids and mermen."

Raoul made a point of checking the instrument over carefully. "It's very handsome, but...is it accurate?" He eyed Erik suspiciously. "You haven't tampered with the adjustments, have you?"

"Me? Tamper with the sextant? Far be it for me to aid in your getting lost. I have no doubts that you are quite capable of doing so on your own."

"Somehow, that isn't very reassuring."

Christine rolled her eyes at the two men. "Don't be an ass, Raoul. Can't you tell when he's joking?" She pinched Erik for good measure, and whispered into his ear, "You _are_ joking, aren't you?"

"I've never heard him make a joke," Raoul said. "It's hard to tell when he's serious and when he isn't. He always looks like he wants to throttle me."

"It's Christmas," Erik said with a Cheshire Cat-like grin, as if that explained everything. "I make it a point never to kill any of my guests on Christmas. Spoils the festive mood."

Raoul replied, "That isn't very reassuring either."

Christine groaned. "Would you two stop this?"

There was a brief, awkward silence, and then Raoul simply said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," mumbled Erik, relieved at last to have this out of the way.

Even the animals received presents in the form of handsome new leather collars and treats. And everyone ooh'd and ah'd when Erik gave Christine a filigree choker necklace and matching earrings of blue topaz. "It will look beautiful with your wedding gown," he said, his lips brushing lightly against her temple as he helped her put on the necklace.

The festivities concluding, Erik announced that once the day's work was completed, the staff was being given the rest of the day and all day tomorrow off. "To celebrate the holiday with your own families," Erik said. Cheers were given to the master of the house, to the soon-to-be-mistress, and eventually the party broke up.

Kathleen handed Raoul his hat and coat. "You'll be visitin' us again, soon…won't you?" she asked hopefully.

Erik, who had been watching the two with some trepidation, pulled Raoul aside. "You realize, of course, that Kathleen's still several months away from her eighteenth birthday? You wouldn't want to known as a cradle robber, would you?"

Raoul cleared his throat loudly. "That never stopped you from being Christine's 'angel,' did it?" he asked pointedly. "Besides, I'm half your age. It's not as if I'm old enough to be her father."

Erik, embarrassed, stammered. "Oh. Yes…I…uhm…" He halted. Damn it if de Chagny didn't have an excellent point.

The two of them stood staring at each other, saying nothing. Finally, Raoul broke the silence. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but you're really not such a bad sort after all. Christine could have done a lot worse than you."

"I supposed that's a compliment," Erik said, stunned.

"As good a one as you'll get from me," Raoul said, then grinned. He extended his hand. "If not friends, then at least, truce?"

Erik found himself suddenly grinning as well. Accepting the proffered hand, he nodded. "Truce."

Christine had been silently watching the two men, at first worried that they would come to blows. When she saw them shake hands, she let out the breath she'd been holding and went over to them. "Thank you," she said, kissing each on the cheek. "Thank you for giving me the best Christmas present I could have asked for."

-0-0-0-

**Historical Notes:** Although the Salvation Army has been around since 1865, the tradition of the Christmas Kettles didn't actually begin until 1891...but don't tell anyone! And the ASPCA was active in New York at this time, so I didn't fudge there.


	24. The Gift of Love, part 1

**The Way to Love  
****Chapter 23  
****The Gift of Love**

**Author's Note:** We're getting down to the end of this story. This is the last chapter, but because I'm still working on the second half, I'm going to post this in two parts. Before you go on to read it, I would first like to thank everyone who's been reading and those of you who have been reviewing. I had been trying to reply to all reviews, but things got a bit hectic and I admit it – I just plain didn't get around to doing so the last couple of chapters. Please know that I appreciate your feedback and your comments.

As for those of you who were wondering about Erik's Christmas Present? You'll get a hint of what's in store for our couple in part two…

And if you like the idea of this "present," then give a great big shout out to Lizzy, who wrote most of parts one and two. I've done some revisions here and there (working to blend her writing style and mine, throwing in a few ideas of my own from time to time, trying to keep it under the "T" rating, which wasn't always easy), but this is essentially her chapter. Big cyber hug to Lizzy!!

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**  
Part One**

'_Twas the night before Christmas…_

At long last, the guests had gone home. The staff finished their various tasks, stopped to wish the master of the house a Merry Christmas, and then departed to spend time with their own families. Finally, Erik and Christine were alone. They enjoyed the solitude as they stood together near the fireplace, enwrapped in each other's arms.

"I do hope Raoul knows what he's doing with Kathleen," Christine said.

"I think he knows exactly what he's doing," Erik responded archly, not particularly interested in talking about Raoul or Kathleen at the moment. "He's enjoying some female companionship before setting sail. And I have every confidence that he will treat her well. She knows that their relationship can't go anywhere. He is, after all, a sailor."

"I thought you were going to say, 'a vicomte'."

"She doesn't know what 'a vicomte' is, but as of tonight, there's a new man. The delivery boy from the green grocer was making eyes at her when he dropped off the order."

Christine let out a little snort. "She works fast. I hope Raoul won't be disappointed."

"Relieved is more like it. But for the rest of tonight, may we dispense with any further talk of vicomtes and chambermaids?"

She gazed at him, dewy eyed and adoring. "I know what you said, but I still feel bad not having a gift to give you." Her hand went to her throat and she touched the necklace he had given her.

"I told you, I wanted no presents from you. You've already given me the greatest possible gift a man could ask for when you told me you loved me."

"All I ever wanted was to be with you."

"You had a funny way of showing it." He mentally chided himself for sounding surly as he fought off the instinctive need to put his hand to his face, still remembering how it had felt when she had ripped his mask away – the humiliation, and the fury. But that was a lifetime ago, something that happened to a different Erik, with a different Christine. Instead of reaching for his face, this time he reached out for her and, smiling down at her, pulled her closer as he ran his fingers through her hair.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice filled with remorse. "I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you'll let me," she said.

His body relaxed as his mood softened, and Erik found himself rewarded with a playful smile that broke forth on Christine's face. "How will you do that?" he said as he guided her over towards the mistletoe that Kathleen had hung in the doorway.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head upon his shoulder, turning her face so that she could look up into his. "If you have to ask, then I must be doing something wrong."

He pointed up at the mistletoe, a crooked grin on his face. "Don't talk. Show me."

Their lips met, and Christine sighed. "The staff is gone until tomorrow noon?" She glanced away from him, towards the stairs that led to the second floor…and the bedrooms.

Erik leaned into her, letting his lean frame adjust to her curves. "You heard me give them the day off. They'll be gone all day tomorrow, even Mrs. Flynn. She said she is spending her holiday with a friend."

"How thoughtful," Christine replied, blushing. "I…," she paused. "I brought a change of clothes with me."

"Yes, I know. You changed into this delightful evening gown for dinner." He ran his hands across her shoulders, enjoying the feel of soft, plush velvet beneath his hands, and let them drop indecently to the small of her back. He grinned as Christine kissed the side of his neck.

"What I meant is…" she hesitated, "…is that it's late. It would be nearly impossible to summon a cab at this time, especially on a holiday, and I certainly don't want you walking on the ice in the dark."

Erik felt the heat rise to his cheeks. "You were planning this all along, to stay the night. That is why you declined Raoul's offer to take you to your hotel."

A tiny giggle escaped from her lips. "I hadn't exactly planned it," she said, crossing her fingers behind her back. "But you can't blame me for wishing it." She peeked at him coquettishly, and tapped his shoulder with her folding fan.

It was an invitation for him to kiss her if ever he had seen one. He brushed his lips across her brow, grazed her cheeks, and circled her perfect mouth before kissing her softly. "It is a large house," he said, his voice husky with desire. "There are two guest rooms upstairs. You may have any room you like. Take mine," he said in all earnestness. "It has the most comfortable bed."

Christine demurred. "I certainly don't wish to chase you out of your own bed," she said, stretching her arms around him, pulling him even tighter to her. "I was rather thinking that we might…that we might…share."

Erik's eyebrows shot up. "Oh." He could hardly believe his luck, but he did not want to press it, either. "This is…unexpected, Christine." He cleared his throat and pulled away from her, slightly embarrassed.

Christine frowned. "Are you saying you're not…ready?"

"God no!" he said, rather too eagerly. "Not, 'no, I'm not ready', but 'God no, I'm not saying that! I mean, I…_damnation_!" He struggled with his thoughts as he attempted to recoup his lost grace. "Words fail me."

"Shhh," she said, pressing two fingers to his lips. She smiled a wicked smile as she adroitly tossed his words back at him. "Then don't talk. Show me."

A primal growl exploded deep within his chest, and in an instant, he had lifted her off her feet and was carrying her towards the staircase. Now that the moment had come, he was grateful for the long weeks of ice skating, walks in the park, and exercise. His poor scarred body was a pathetic sight, but at least he was fit and trim.

She rubbed the palms of her hands across his shoulders as he carried her to his chamber. "Such muscles," she murmured. "My strong man." She lay languorously in his arms and squealed with delight when he raked her neck with his teeth, nipping at her throat.

He paused at the threshold, his tall frame filling the doorway. He looked at her wonderingly. "You really do love me, for myself."

"You sound as though you need convincing," she said with a little laugh. "You are _very_ lovable, darling, in spite of your best efforts to convince me otherwise." She nuzzled his cheek, and carefully lifted the mask away.

He put her down, but kept his arms around her. "This is important to me, Christine. Why now? Why have you decided to…to love me?"

"I thought we had already gone over this. Pardon me if I'm wrong, but I think you're fine the way you are, thank you very much," she stewed, wriggling out of his arms. "You certainly know how to woo a girl." She ran her hands down her gown, smoothing out the wrinkles from the bodice and down the skirt, down the length of her legs.

Erik was temporarily lost in thought, vivid mental images lingering in his mind of the places she had touched as she straightened her gown. "What I mean is, I want to be worthy of your love. Worthy of _you_."

She fingered the gold band on her left ring finger. "Perhaps I should ask myself if I have the right to love you. After all, I didn't appreciate what we had in Paris until it was too late. You were so powerful, so frightening, I was overwhelmed." She looked at him sternly. "You've changed. You're not the bogeyman you once were. No more popping out of secret passageways, hiding behind mirrors."

He scanned the room. "True. Construction workers with the skills to build them are hard to come by in New York, and there are severe penalties for killing them to ensure their silence. If we want secret passageways in our house, I'll have to build them myself." He smiled happily, his thin lips stretched to the limit.

"That sounds nice."

"My building secret passages here?"

"No, silly." Christine held out her hands to him. "_Our_ house."

He held her hands to his breast and pulled her closer to the fireplace, where a warm fire cast a rosy glow around the room. The flames crackled as a knothole in one of the logs caught fire. She stood on her tiptoes and tilted her head towards his, inviting a slow kiss. He ran his fingertips underneath the straps of her gown, letting his thumbs caress the rich red velvet before lifting the straps off her shoulders.

"Erik," she whispered.

"Mmmm?" he asked, as he traced an invisible line above her décolletage with his lips.

"Erik? That feels wonderful, but…would you mind running a bath for me? I've been on my feet all day, and I need to freshen up first."

"A bath?" he asked, as he slid his hand down the back of her gown, unhooking the fastenings as he proceeded.

"A bath," she said, glowing in the firelight. "First a bath, and then…? Then, I shall be presentable and ready for bed."

"Mmmm…bed," he said, as he continued making progress with the gown. "Bed first, then bath?" he suggested hopefully.

She stuck out her lower lip, pouting prettily. "I've been dying to try that tub ever since I saw it."

"Ah. The truth at last. You love me for my bath fixtures."

"I admit it," she said with false sincerity, batting her eyes dizzyingly. "I'm marrying you for your porcelain."

He sighed, and pretended to weigh his options. "I can live with that," he said. "It's a small price to pay for the privilege of marrying the most incredible woman on earth."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Promise me anything, but give me that bathtub."

He waggled his eyebrows and pretended to ogle her as he towered over her. "I'll scrub your back," he sang. "And then, your front."

"Oh, you are a bad, bad man! Whatever will I do with you? I am shocked, shocked, I say. Now hurry up, and do as you're told. Your diva has spoken."

"This is torture," he complained. "Far worse than anything Rahzoul ever thought up."

Reluctantly, he withdrew to the bath. He closed the shutters on the windows, and turned up the heater before starting the water. He snatched a vial of neroli oil from a shelf, and scented the water with a few drops of the fragrance from the Nile. He glanced around the room before deciding to dim the lights and light the beeswax candles in the wall sconces. Soon, the aroma of warm honey suffused the humid air, where it mingled with the oil to produce an intoxicating fragrance.

Satisfied with the results, he turned his attention to necessities. He fluffed the towels hanging on the heated towel bar, and frowned. These would never do; they were far too coarse for Christine's delicate skin. He threw them into the laundry basket inside the linen closet, and carefully selected replacements made from fine Egyptian cotton, towels that he had personally ordered from northern Africa. He felt himself grow warmer as he imagined blotting drops of water from her skin with the sumptuous towels when she emerged from the bath.

He hummed the famous aria from _Aida_ as he worked, and recalled the first time he'd seen the opera performed.

_Celeste Aïda, forma divina,  
Mistico serto di luce e fior,  
Del mio pensiero tu sei regina,  
Tu di mia vita sei lo splendor._

_Heavenly Aida, divine form,  
Mystical garland of light and flowers,  
You are queen of my thoughts,  
You are the splendor of my life._

The aria could have been written about Christine. He was adrift in memories of beautiful music when a soft knock at the door alerted him to Christine's arrival. She was a vision of loveliness, wrapped in his dressing gown – and nothing else. She lifted a dainty bare foot and moistened her lips before speaking.

"How's the water?" she asked.

"Fine," he squeaked. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "I had no idea you had a cruel streak." He responded sourly to her defiant glare. "You are killing me."

She smiled smugly, pleased with herself. "Wolf was scratching at the door."

Erik glanced at his pocket watch. "He wants to go outside. It's time for his walk."

"Oh." She closed a fistful of Erik's robe around her neck and blew him a kiss. "Hurry back, while I get the implements of torture ready for you."

"You brought…toys?" he asked, intrigued.

She knit her eyebrows in consternation. "I brought myself. Don't you worry your pretty little head. I am sure I can think of ways to keep you amused."

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone," he promised and dashed out the door.

On his way down the stairs, he thought of the opened bottle of champagne in the cooler near the dining table, two crystal stems, a bowl of raspberries, and a number of ordinary household items that he might put to creative uses.

Wolf was waiting, licking his lips in anticipation of the reward he would get if he did his business and hurried back into the house without dawdling. Outside, he barked half-heartedly at the rabbits that had hopped into the circle of light near the back door, but did not give chase. He had an appointment with an enormous soup bone, a cozy fireplace, and a warm rug. He shook off the snow clinging to his fur and bounded back inside the kitchen. He nuzzled his master's hand, eager for a scratch behind the ears, and then was presented with his prize. With soup bone held tightly between his jaws, Wolf pranced proudly to his bed by the fire, and settled down for the night.

Erik had been busy while Wolf was outside, gathering the items wanted and placing them onto a tray. A quick stop in the conservatory was next, where he clipped a showy blossom from one of the orchids growing there. Satisfied that all was perfect – a perfect presentation for the most perfect woman in the world – he began to climb the steps, taking them two at a time.

A blood-curdling scream brought him to a screeching halt.

-0-0-0-


	25. The Gift of Love, part 2

**Author's Note: **To those of you who have seen and read this story in its original form over on The Write Stuff, there are some changes to this version. Lizzy and I have spent many days discussing what we wanted to do with this chapter, and how we wanted to present it. 

You may have noticed that I have bumped up the rating of this story to "M." This is because I have received a number of requests for a more fully realized romance between Erik and Christine and so, thanks to Lizzy's tireless efforts in seeing that Erik gets some satisfaction, this is what we are presenting to you. I hope this lives up to everyone's expectations. For those of you uncomfortable with more explicit sexual content, you may want to skim past the second half of this chapter.

There will be one more chapter (or epilogue…or whatever you care to call it). I am still in the process of writing it, and for that reason it could be a bit longer between updates. I'll try to have it written by sometime next week. In the meantime…enjoy! (I hope this more than makes up for that evil cliffie at the end of part one.)

* * *

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 23, Part 2  
The Gift of Love  
by HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

"Oh, you horrible beast!" Christine cried. 

Erik's heart pounded. As quickly and as quietly as he could, he set the tray on landing at the top of the staircase and bounded into the bath. He was prepared to fight a hundred Rahzoul's if it meant saving Christine, but he wasn't prepared for the enemy within – Seamus. 

There, seated on the edge of the bathtub, was a dripping mass of wet cat fur. His one green eye blinked indignantly at Christine, who was standing in the center of the tub and grasping a towel for modesty's sake. 

Erik laughed out loud. "I see you've discovered Seamus' fondness for water." He bent over and laughed until his face turned red. 

"You knew about this all along," Christine spat, checking her leg for scratches.

Erik back peddled. It wouldn't do to make Christine angry, not now when they were so close to… 

"No! I swear I didn't know he was in here. I thought Mrs. Flynn was taking him with her on holiday." He wrapped the cat in one of his lesser quality towels and quickly dried him off. "The miserable creature sometimes swims in the tub, after I've finished my baths." 

Seamus was not the least bit appreciative of Erik's efforts to dry him off. The feline growled and hissed, batting at his tormentor with claws bared. 

"Be that way," Erik scolded. He wrapped the cat in the towel to protect himself from fangs and claws and deposited the cat in the hallway. Erik watched as a gray streak sped down the stairs, spinning for traction on the hardwood floor, before retreating to the kitchen. 

Mission accomplished, Erik retrieved the tray he had prepared. Returning to the bath, he set it on a small table near the tub and realized Christine was watching him silently. He handed her the flower, and then folded his arms and took in the view.

"Stop that," Christine said, struggling to suppress a grin. She hid her face behind the orchid. "Be useful, and hand me a towel."

"You're bleeding." Erik was beside her instantly, a fresh towel in hand. "Let me see."

"It's nothing. It's only a scratch." She watched as Erik tended her wound. "I think I scared him more than he scared me. When he landed in the water, I nearly jumped out of my skin."

"Infernal beast! He'll be put out of the house permanently tomorrow."

"You will do nothing of the sort! Next time, I'll simply check behind the potted plants before I close the door."

"Next time," Erik mused. "I like the sound of that. It gives me hope for the future."

Tears puddled in her eyes. "We do have a future together, Erik. I thought you knew that."

He looked away. "I wasn't certain. I don't want to presume…"

Christine knelt in the water, "Presume all you like, monsieur." She flashed the golden band at him. "You made me a promise, and I'm holding you to it."

"I mean, you don't have to marry me, Christine. Everything I have is yours, whether you marry me or not. I've already changed my will…"

"Don't talk like that!"

"…and Ambrose knows what to do with anything you don't want to keep."

"I don't want your belongings. I want you."

"But…but the property…the house…my accounts…. They are considerable, Christine. You'll be well provided for."

"Must you always make it sound so…so mercenary? I love _you,_ Erik. I don't want your money. I have plenty of my own." 

He pondered this revelation while Christine stirred the water with her toe. 

_She loves me for myself._

"Brrr. This water is getting cold. I think it is time to get out." She stood, dripping wet. 

Erik rose and wrapped her in one of the plush towels. He took another one and began drying her, starting at the top and working his way down. He'd only gotten as far as her shoulders before she leaned in for a kiss. 

"I liked it when you came rushing to my rescue," she whispered. "You looked incredibly masculine, incredibly…heroic. My hero!"

He coughed. "Yes, well, I was, um, planning to strangle the poor little pussycat with my bare hands for frightening you."

She snorted. "Little? That 'pussycat' weighs two stone if he weighs a pound. He's enormous. In some countries, they'd put him on display and call him a freak of nature."

"A sideshow act," Erik muttered. "The perfect pet for a monster like me."

"Stop that. If you keep talking that way, you're going to end up morose and sad and I won't have it. Not on our first Christmas together. Not in _our_ house! Not ever."

He dropped the towel into the water and turned away from her before sitting on the ledge surrounding the tub. "You don't understand, Christine. I've always had to barter for anything I've ever gotten. This whole business of being loved for oneself is a very difficult concept for me."

She perched beside him and wrapped her arms around him. "Yet, you don't mind giving me your love, without any promises in return." 

"I've given up understanding you or making demands of you. Extortion and terrorism didn't work. I've turned over a new leaf, remember? I am a reformed man. I'm better than I used to be."

She put her forehead to his. "I like this new, improved Erik. He's kind, and he isn't presumptuous. He's almost humble."

"I am not. I am an elitist snob. Besides, I'm still temperamental."

"Wouldn't have you any other way."

"I'm old."

"You're in the prime of your life."

"I'm…I'm…what's that Ambrose calls me? Grumpy. I'm grumpy."

"Yes, you are." She laughed softly, shaking her head. "But I still love you, and I am determined to get you to the altar, no matter how grumpy you are."

He frowned, pouting as much as it was possible for him to pout with his twisted lip. "You've got your work cut out for you." 

She stood, dropping her towel, and stepped out of the tub while using his shoulder for balance. She watched as his eyes traveled upwards, from the tops of her feet to the mass of curls piled atop her head, and turned and looked at him over her shoulder. 

"I think it's time for you to show me what else you have on that tray of yours." As she walked into the bedroom, her hips swayed hypnotically. She paused, placed a hand on one hip for effect, and murmured, "Sometimes, you simply have to take what's offered, without question. The Americans say, 'Don't look a present in the mouth.' Yes?"

Erik followed her, entranced. "A gift horse," he said, correcting her. 

"What did you say?" 

"Never mind. You look too lovely tonight for me to think straight. I'm dazzled by the sight of you. Whoever said 'clothes make the woman' never saw you."

She turned and faced him, spreading her arms out in an open invitation. "I'm cold, darling. Warm me up."

Instantly, he was beside her. He drew her with him towards the fireplace. They sat on the rug nearby, enjoying the radiant heat, and slowly, deftly, Christine undressed him. 

She ran her fingers across the fresh scar on his chest, and kissed it to make it better. She carefully lifted off his shoes, and held his maimed foot in her hand long enough to make sure it was fully healed. The flesh appeared tender and red, the wound too fresh to touch. 

"Does it hurt?" she asked. 

"Only when the weather changes," he said, embarrassed by the attention she was paying his old injuries. "I didn't need all those toes anyway." 

She leaned forward and kissed the top of his foot. "My hero," she murmured. 

A nervous laugh escaped him before he saw that she was serious. He gasped when she ran her hand up his bare leg and took off his last vestige of modesty. 

"Turn over." 

She commanded it, so he complied, even though it wasn't easy in his current state. She ran her hands up the backs of his legs and up, along his upper thighs. She rubbed his muscles, massaging deeply, before leaning and kissing him along the length of his back. She kissed him where he had been beaten his first night in New York, and he sighed as each kiss brought back the memory of an injury – and just as quickly, dispelled it. By the time she kissed the nape of his neck, he was completely relaxed, and focused on her touch. 

She tugged at his shoulder until he rolled over on his side, and she snuggled up against him. He pushed her hair away from her face and kissed her golden brow, the shell of her ear, and the apple of her cheek, before settling on her bow-shaped lips. Silently, she urged him on.

He picked her up with one arm, and positioned himself above her. "Not yet," he whispered. Reluctantly, he stood and went to his dresser. "Shouldn't we…use some form of protection?" From the top drawer, he produced a leather case. "They're not easy to secure here in America, but I was able to buy some…just in case." 

She looked askance. "I don't want _them_. I want _you_, Erik. All of you." Her eyes pleaded with him. "I want to give you a child. Besides, we didn't use these the other time."

"And for that, I am sorry. I wasn't thinking straight." 

_Oh? Forgot about protection last time, did we?_ It was that little voice popping back into his head, taunting him. _Something else on our mind? Like __finally__ having the woman of our dreams right where we've always wanted her? _

"I'm not sorry," Christine said, interrupting his thoughts. "It was what _I_ wanted – no plans, no expectations, just the two of us and our love. You're the only person I've ever felt this way about…about not wanting to use protection."

"You mean...you and Raoul never...?" He halted suddenly, ashamed at having pried into something so personal. "I'm sorry, Christine. That was rude of me. What happened back then, between you and Raoul? That's…that's none of my business…"

"It's all right, Erik. I don't want there to be any secrets between us. As for what happened between Raoul and me? It was hardly lovemaking; at least not as I now know it to be. It was more like fumbling in total darkness, under covers, with as many of our clothes as we could keep on. We were—"

Erik stopped her. "No details, please. The image of you, in his arms – it's searing a hole in my brain."

But Christine insisted on explaining. "What I was going to say was that it was nothing like when I was with you. With you, there is fire." She smiled coyly, walking her fingers up his shoulder to his neck. "I may have to find some of those women you mentioned."

Erik snorted. "Surely you jest."

"I'd like to thank them," she said, wrapping her arm around him. 

He looked closely into her face, trying to ascertain whether she was joking or not. "You...you think I am a good..." – he could hardly bring himself to say the word – "..._lover_?" The last word was practically choked out. 

"A most excellent lover," she said as she touched him, drawing him closer. "A marvelous lover," she said, whispering into his ear, nuzzling the tender flesh. "And you'll be an even better father."

"Father? I don't think so," he said, pulling away slightly. 

Christine shook her head, disappointed. "Didn't you even wonder why I never stopped...last time? Why I encouraged you? Why, I practically forced myself on you?"

He shook his head like a guilty man. He'd known what he was doing that night. Deep inside, he knew he had wanted it as much as she did, but he couldn't give voice to it, needed for her to be the first to say it, to make it real for him. 

_Admit it! You found the idea of impregnating her to be erotic beyond your wildest imagination. The very thought of it had sent waves of desire coursing through your veins._

He tried to ignore his inner voice, and instead listened carefully to her as she spoke, determined not to allow himself the optimism of believing that she truly meant what she said.

"When we first met, here in New York, I thought...I was certain that, in spite of all you said, that in the end, you would not want me any more. But as we began seeing more of each other, getting to know each other all over again, things changed. Like buds bursting into bloom, old feelings that had lain dormant were resurrected. And then came that night, and while we were making love, I knew there was the possibility that I could give you a child. Later, when I realized that this had not happened, I was disappointed. So you see, this isn't a sudden decision on my part, Erik. It is something I've been giving thought to for a long time now." 

"It's sudden for me." He pursed his lips in consternation, and ran a hand through his hair. His ardor cooled as he contemplated this new twist in their relationship. Her words struck a chord in his heart and made him feel special. That she would want to have his child was beyond the acceptance he'd always sought, beyond anything he'd ever felt before, but no matter how alluring the idea was, he still wasn't sure. He sat down hard on the bed and held his head in his hands. 

_Admit it— you're afraid of fatherhood. _

He looked at her plaintively. "We don't have to decide tonight on such matters," he said. 

"You and I deserve have every happiness any other couple enjoys, including a family of our own. What must I do to convince you of this?" 

"A family of little—what did you say? Freaks of nature? Christine, has it ever occurred to you that they might look like me?"

"I would love any child of yours, no matter how he looked. You're always talking about how well provided for I'd be. Our children would never suffer. People will respect the children of Erik Duquesne and Christine Daaé."

"Not everyone shares your generous spirit, nor your appreciation of the grotesque. Children who look like me will hardly be admitted to polite society."

"Piffle!" she said forcefully, shaking her golden tresses for emphasis. "Polite society be hanged." She tucked her feet under her. 

He laughed in spite of the black cloud hanging over his head. "Such language!"

She knelt behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder. "Very well, I'll wait…for now. But promise me you will consider it. Do not dismiss the idea out of hand." 

She kissed the side of his neck as she reached for the leather case and handed it over to him, a single tear tracing down her cheek the only sign that Erik's insistence on no children distressed her. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes tight as she threw her arms wide open. "Go ahead," she warbled, as if her heart were breaking. "Have your fun." She draped her arm across her forehead dramatically. 

He was tempted to do exactly that, out of spite. And then, something inside of him relented. "I will consider children," he promised.

She perked up, but immediately grew suspicious. "Our children? Children that the two of us make? Together?"

"Of course, but you are young. We have plenty of time ahead of us. Let's enjoy this night."

She smiled brightly, and his heart melted. He'd forgive her anything, do anything for her, fight a thousand madmen, if she'd only smile like that. He might even father a child some day.

But not tonight. He sheathed himself and prepared to make love to her all night long. "Come to me, my angel of music," he whispered. 

-0-0-0- 

He reached out for her face, and she leaned her cheek into his hand, closing her eyes and rubbing the corner of her mouth against his palm. Her arms stole 'round his neck, and she touched her cheek against his damaged face, nestling within his arms and snuggling her body tight against his. It was such a small gesture, but it meant so much to him. 

"Our first dinner party went well, didn't it?" she asked, moving so that she could rest her head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart, her fingers drawing circles on his chest. "Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves."

Her caresses encouraged him to continue his ministrations. "You were a vision of loveliness," he said, pulling her face to his and kissing her long and deeply. From her mouth he made his way to her neck, and then to her shoulder. 

"Cook prepared quite a feast." She wrapped her arms around his waist, their bodies responding to each other. 

"You sang carols by the fire." He worked his way to her bosom. "I didn't expect that. You made this house into a home."

"You played beautifully tonight—oh!" she gasped as he licked a languid circle around an areola.

"I always play well." He blew his hot breath across her nipple. "You were in top voice. That G above high G rattled the crystal. It was fantastic." He touched the center of her being as he concentrated on her breasts. She moaned in his ear, and he let out a growl, redoubling his efforts. 

She pushed him onto his back and kissed him the way he had kissed her. She worked her hand below his waist and cupped him as she kissed him harder and deeper. Abruptly, she broke off the kiss and lowered her head to his midsection and fondled his testicles gently, murmuring, "This little pouch of life." 

She kissed the length of him, taking him in her mouth, teasing him with her tongue, and driving him out of his mind with the edge of her teeth. She stroked him with her soft fingers as she worked him with her mouth, knowing he was barely able to restrain himself. It had been months since they'd made love. Since that night, Erik had been the model of decorum, a gentleman to the last, never daring more than a chaste kiss when he bade her good night. He had displayed more control than he ever imagined possible. Now, he was straining at her touch, eager for more when she blew a gentle breath across the most sensitive part of his body. 

He'd never felt anything like it, not even when he had been with the perfumed odalisques of Persia. He was hot all over, burning with desire, ready to explode. He thrust involuntarily against her, fully aware of the way a loose tendril of her hair felt as it brushed rhythmically against his bare skin when her head bobbed as she worked her wonders. Watching her giving him pleasure nearly sent him over the edge. 

And then, he could not speak any more as he felt himself slipping away, thinking of only one thing: Being inside her. Being united with her. Coming. Bringing her to ecstasy. 

She raised her head and shook her blonde curls coyly. "See what you've been missing?" she whispered. 

"I want you," he was finally able to rasp out. "I want to take you now and make you sing." 

"Do it," she said lasciviously. 

She made irresistible, titillating sounds as he reversed their positions and plunged into her. He thrust into her wantonly, oblivious to everything but the final threshold. He was barely aware of her clutching his shoulders until he felt her nails dig into his skin. He watched wonderingly as she threw her head aback and cried out his name. 

That he had this power over her compelled him to drive on and on as her climax intensified. She seemed to come again and again, and he rode out each wave until it began to wane. This was a pleasure more intense than any he'd experienced before. She was so hot, so tight, that the sensation was pure ecstasy. 

_There are no barriers between us,_ he thought, as he let himself go at last. Red lights danced behind his eyes as he came and came, and he thought he heard the angels sing – but it was Christine, singing him a love song. 

He rolled onto his side, taking her with him. His detumescent organ began to pulsate, already seeking her warmth again. He smiled contentedly, and gazed into her eyes. She was completely relaxed. Completely at peace. Completely his. He covered her with the blankets and settled down, content, and gazed at her lovingly.

With her fingers, she traced the outlines of the scars on his body. 

"Why do they fascinate you so?" he asked, enjoying her tender touch.

"Because they are part of you." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek – softly, tenderly.

The logs in the fireplace glowed warmly as the two of them rested comfortably in each other's arms. Outside, church bells were calling worshipers to midnight services, and down the street could be heard the voices of carolers.

"Erik? How long do we have to wait to get married?"

"I leave that entirely up to you, my love," he said. "I don't want you to feel rushed or pressured. Just let me know when you're ready."

She chuckled wickedly. "I'm ready now…"

Erik laughed. "I meant, when you are ready to marry."

"Then what about tomorrow?"

"What?" Erik sputtered, her suggestion taking him completely by surprise. "Why…tomorrow is Christmas Day. We need to get a license, and a justice of the peace, or priest, or whoever it is that will perform the ceremony…"

Suddenly, her eyes grew wide. She squirmed uncomfortably, and then reached down under the covers. 

Her unexpected actions worried Erik. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"There's moisture," she said, sounding surprised. She brought up the spent prophylactic. "Erik," she said, her voice tremulous and fearful. "It must have broken while we were making love." Sure enough, there had been no barriers between them – physical or metaphorical.

"I suppose that settles it," Erik declared unhesitatingly.

"Are you disappointed?" Christine asked.

-0-0-0- 


	26. Ever After

**Author's Note:** This is it, gentle readers -- the end of the story. And once again, my thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and most of all, enjoyed. I have a couple of small vignettes I'll be posting in the near future that are sequels of sorts to my other story, _Variations on a Theme of Leroux_. I am also working on ideas for a couple new stories, but as I am not the kind of writer who is able to crank out stories quickly and easily, it could be a few months before you see something new from me.

In the meantime, Lizzy and I and the rest of our Write Stuff crew will continue working on our Phantom anthology book. The stories are written, and I am in the process of helping with formatting them for publishing. Please check my profile from time to time for updates. And now...on with the show.

* * *

**The Way to Love  
Chapter 24  
Ever After  
HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

_December 25, 1883_

The point came during the night when both had fallen asleep, but now something woke Erik up. Perhaps it was the mantle clock chiming softly, or maybe it was… Yes, that was it! It was the smell of freshly brewed coffee. He opened his eyes, rolled over to ask Christine if someone was in the kitchen, and found he was along in bed.

"Good morning, sleepy head."

Erik sat up, watching Christine as she came through the door with a tray, laden with a coffee pot, a couple cups, and some breakfast rolls.

"What do you mean, calling me sleepy head?" he asked with a grin. "It's only five in the morning."

"And high time you were awake, too. We have matters to attend to…"

He patted the mattress next to him. "Indeed, we do."

Christine sat down. "You never answered my question last night," she said, handing him a roll.

Erik blinked in confusion. "Question? What question?"

"The one about whether you are disappointed."

"Disappointed? I could never be disappointed! You see, I…I believe you when you say that you want to be the mother of my children. I couldn't be happier. Christine, you have given me the world!"

She leaned closer and allowed him to take her in his arms. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and turned her face to meet his as they kissed. "I'll see to it that you won't ever regret this, Erik."

Erik held her close, and then happened to glance over at the coffee pot. "I'm the one who should be doing this for you," he said, indicating the tray.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," she laughed as she got up and poured them both a cup. "Tomorrow the domestic help returns and that will be an end to having the house to ourselves. We'll have to be respectable again."

"At least, until we're married," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "That's truly what you want, Christine, is it not? For us to be married?"

"Only if it is what _you _want. I want no more barriers between us – real or imagined."

Erik gave a brief nod as he drank down the last of his coffee and placed the empty mug on the table by the bed. "Agreed. So, when?"

"I'd suggest today but…it's Christmas. I don't know who we could find to marry us on such short notice."

An idea came to Erik. "I think I do. Get dressed. We're going to call upon Ambrose."

"At this hour?" Christine asked, aghast at the idea of waking the poor man out of bed on Christmas morning.

"He's already awake, getting things ready at the infirmary."

-0-0-0-

Despite the early hour, the infirmary was already abuzz with activity as preparations were underway for the Christmas dinner for the needy of the neighborhood. As Erik had known, Ambrose was up and about, but he was surprised to find Mrs. Flynn at the older man's side, and he now wondered if his housekeeper had been here all night.

"Is this the friend you said you were spending Christmas with?" Erik asked, and was surprised to see Mrs. Flynn actually blush.

Ambrose flashed a big smile, looking like the fat, jolly old elf himself. "I told you I knew a thing or two about women," he said as he winked at Mrs. Flynn. "Muriel and me have been seein' each other for quite some time now."

"Is there a problem, Mr. D.?" the housekeeper asked defiantly, daring him to tell her differently.

"I have no idea what you might be referring to, Mrs. Flynn," Erik replied, feigning ignorance.

"Then you're not going to dismiss me for spendin' time with Ambrose?" she queried further.

Erik almost snorted. "Dismiss you? Heavens no, woman. Who would keep Kathleen and that cook, Eliza, in line?"

Ambrose interrupted. "Somehow I don't think you two came all the way over here on Christmas morning just to talk about me and your housekeeper, Erik. So, tell me, what's on your mind."

"Christine and I would like to get married."

"Hell, son, you don't need my permission. Marry her; that's what you were mooning about for so long."

"I'm not asking for your permission, Ambrose," Erik said, suddenly uncomfortable. "We…that is, Christine and I…we were…"

"We were wondering if you knew someone who could marry us today," Christine finished for Erik.

Ambrose scratched his chin as he eyed to two of them suspiciously. "Is there something I should know?" he finally asked.

Erik didn't answer, but stood there staring at Ambrose, letting his friend draw his own conclusions.

"Then it doesn't have to be right now, today?"

"Not really," Erik and Christine replied in unison.

A smile broke out on Ambrose's face and he gave them each a hearty pat on the back. "Good! Because I can use the two of you to help getting this dinner ready while I give this wedding of yours some thought." And Ambrose promptly put the two of them to work in the kitchen.

-0-0-0-

"What a long day this has been. I've never been so tired in all my life!" Christine exclaimed as she crawled into bed next to Erik. "I can't remember when I've been on my feet so long in one day."

"I probably shouldn't have taken you to the infirmary on today of all days," Erik said.

"I'm glad you did. This was one of the most joyous Christmases I've ever spent. Why, did you see the looks on those faces when they saw all that food?"

"For many of them, it's the only warm meal they'll have all week."

"I see why working there provides you with so much satisfaction."

"What gives me even more satisfaction is that you agreed to spend the night again," Erik said, drawing her closer.

"Me too. It's rather fun, don't you think? The two of us pretending as if we're sneaking around, when in fact it's your house we're staying in? Mmm…that feels good," Christine murmured as he started massaging her neck.

"It almost makes me sorry the staff will be returning tomorrow." He leaned over and kissed her neck, then began working on her shoulders and down her back.

"So, what did you think of Ambrose's idea," she asked, adjusting her position to be more comfortable.

"Idea?" Erik mumbled, distracted by the allure of her golden mane.

"You know, silly – for the wedding," she said, giving out a little giggle. "Stop that," she said when he found a ticklish spot. "You know… _eeee!"_ she squealed in delight. Turning over, she reached over and pulled him all but on top of her. "Now tell me the truth – do you like it?"

"Do you?" he asked as he showered her with kisses.

"Yes, I do."

"Then I do, too. Now, may we dispense with the conversation and take care of more important matters?"

-0-0-0-

Three days later, Erik and Christine made their way into the small chapel at the infirmary. Erik had never paid any particular attention to it in the past, as going to church had never been high on his list of priorities. In fact, he had been working at the infirmary for nearly six months before he even knew it existed.

When Ambrose had suggested a Quaker style wedding, Erik had not been sure what to expect. But Ambrose knew his friend would be uncomfortable with a more traditional church wedding. He explained that weddings among the Friends were very plain; that they didn't believe in certain trappings of society. There would be no rings to exchange, no minister, no flower bouquet to toss. It would be a simple service between God, a man, a woman, and the people who promised to support their marriage – their witnesses.

"Would you be comfortable with such a plain ceremony?" Erik asked Christine.

"For many years, both of our lives have revolved around the stage, surrounded by theatrics and drama and artifice. We don't need frills, Erik, only an honest commitment between us. Besides, nothing would be plain with you at my side – as my husband," she replied. And that settled that.

Over the past several days, the three of them had gone over what was involved, and in the evenings, Erik and Christine worked on their wedding promises.

"Are you nervous?" Christine asked as they entered the room.

"No," Erik said uneasily. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just that you seem a bit more pale than usual."

Erik laughed nervously. "It's true, Christine. I've never been more scared in my life. What if…"

She placed her finger on his lips, silencing his talk of doubts. "Shh. No going back now, remember?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You know what it does to me when you talk about…," he paused and whispered in her ear, "…the point of no return."

"Save that thought until we get home," she whispered back.

"Home," he said with a sigh. "_Our_ home." He leaned over to kiss her when movement behind them caught his attention. They both turned to see Ambrose, dressed in his best frock coat.

"Now, now," the older man said, scolded jokingly. "Can't the two of you wait a few minutes more, or must I throw a bucket of water on you?"

As they spoke, guests entered the room – the workers, the patients, the neighbors. They were all dressed in their Sunday best, and would nod and smile at the bride and groom as they came in and took their seats on the benches that served as pews – the men on one side of the room, and the women on the other, as was customary in a Quaker meetinghouse.

"How much longer?" Erik asked.

"From God's perspective, you're already married," explained Ambrose.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Christine laughed at Erik's impatience, and Ambrose went on. "You're worse than a kid at…at Christmas! You are waiting for the guests and their families – the members of _your_ community – to take their seats. Look around. These people love you and care for you; they are happy for you and want the help celebrate your marriage." He lowered his voice. "Plus, you need witnesses for the wedding certificate. The State of New York is peculiar in that respect. They want proof."

Erik looked around at the growing number of people. "But…but _all _of them? There must be at least thirty people here!"

"Closer to forty," Ambrose said.

"Keep your voice down," Christine gently admonished. "They are _our _friends, Erik. The more, the merrier."

Erik hated admitting that he was wrong and they were right, even when they were. "Are all of them really necessary?"

"It's the Christmas season," Christine said. "I consider them a blessing, and so should you."

"I think it's time you took your seats," Ambrose said. "Remember, there's no formal structure here. The two of you sit together, meditate, contemplate what is taking place today, and think of all the blessings God has bestowed upon the two of you. When you're ready, you stand up and exchange your wedding promises." And with that, Ambrose walked over to take a seat with some of the guests.

The atmosphere was quiet and reverent. Erik and Christine took their seats on their respective sides of the room as Ambrose had suggested. After several minutes, Erik nodded to Christine.

"Do you feel ready?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Christine nodded, beaming happily.

Taking each other by the hand, they stood up and announced their intention to marry – before their Friends, and before God.

Erik spoke so that all in the room could hear, his voice strong and clear.

"Christine Daaé, will you take me for your husband, before God and this gathering?" When she said yes, he continued. "I promise to fill our home with music," he said.

And now it was Christine's turn. "Erik Duquesne, I promise to fill our home with song."

"I promise to care for you, to protect you, and to love you with all my heart and all my strength and all my soul." He squeezed her hands gently.

"I promise to care for you, to keep you safe, to make a happy home for us both, and to love you with all my power." She fought back a tear of joy.

"And I promise to provide for you, to watch over you, and to give you wings to fly."

"And I promise to be a good mother to our children, should God so bless us."

Erik stifled a cough, then said softly, "I promise to keep the cat out of the bath from now on." But he didn't say it softly enough, for not only did Christine chuckle, but so did the others in attendance. He blushed slightly, but continued, "I promise to do all in my power to be the man you believe I am."

She smiled demurely. "And I promise to be the woman you think that _I_ am…and the woman you need."

"In the presence of God and these our friends, I take you, Christine, to be my wife, promising with Divine assistance to be a loving and faithful husband as long as we both shall live."

And she replied, "In the presence of God and these our friends, I take you, Erik, to be my husband, promising with Divine assistance to be a loving and faithful wife as long as we both shall live."

They stood holding hand as they stared lovingly into each other's eyes.

"Is that it?" Christine asked quietly.

"I believe so."

They returned to their seats, and Ambrose brought the marriage certificate for them to sign. Once their signatures were affixed to the document, Ambrose stood in front of the congregation and read.

"On this day, the twenty-eighth of December, in the year of our Lord, One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Eighty-three, Christine Daaé and Erik Duquesne appeared together, and Erik, taking Christine by the hand, did, on this solemn and joyous occasion, declare that he took Christine to be his wife, promising with Divine assistance to be unto her a loving and faithful husband; and then, in the same assembly, Christine, did in like manner declare that she took Erik to be her husband, promising with Divine assistance, to be unto him a loving and faithful wife. And moreover they, Erik and Christine, did, as further confirmation thereof, then and there, to this certificate set their hands. And I would ask all of you to serve as witnesses to this joyous occasion and sign the certificate as well." Ambrose placed the certificate on a table, next to a pen and inkwell that had been placed there for all the guests to sign as witnesses.

He smiled at the newlyweds. "Oh, and you may now kiss the bride."

-0-0-0-

The carriage that had brought them to the infirmary for their wedding was still waiting for them, as Erik had requested. Thanks to the neighborhood children, it had been decorated with flowers and festooned with white wedding drapery and bows. Erik and Christine thanked them for their special gift of decorations, and waved goodbye to their friends.

Ambrose insisted on hugging the bride and on shaking Erik's hand. "Don't let me see you back here for at least a month," he said with a wink.

Gently, Erik pulled his bride away from the impromptu receiving line and helped her into the carriage. Christine held his arm and snuggled against him as much as propriety would allow in broad daylight in New York City. She glowed in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, and her golden tresses framed her rosy cheeks. "I am the luckiest man in the world," he told her solemnly.

She gazed up at her husband, and frowned. "Erik? Are you all right? You have tears in your eyes."

"So do you," he said softly. He tilted her head up and brushed a kiss across her lips.

"They are tears of joy," she promised.

"I have an idea that you might like," he said, lightening his mood. "I've been thinking about a wedding trip."

She clapped her hands in delight. "A surprise honeymoon!"

"You might say that. There's a place I've heard about. It's north of the city. We could take a riverboat cruise to Albany tonight, then catch a train to Rochester. We'll arrive at our destination within three days."

He knew from the twinkle in her eyes that she was intrigued. "Only three days? It must not be too far away. Where are we going? Or is that part of the surprise?"

"Niagara Falls. It's a natural wonder, much like yourself," he teased. He chuckled when she blushed at his sweet talk. "My research indicates that it is where all well-to-do couples go on their honeymoons nowadays."

Soon, the carriage pulled into the Duquesnes' driveway and came to a halt near the front door. Erik whisked Christine off her feet and held her close to him as he climbed the steps at record speed. The door swung open before him, thanks to the watchful eye of his housekeeper. He carried his bride over the threshold and kissed her once, twice, three times before setting her on her feet.

Mrs. Flynn had come home ahead of Erik and Christine to ensure that all of the post-nuptial preparations were complete. Eliza and Kathleen curtsied to their new mistress as she entered the house, and offered the happy couple sincere wishes for their future. The gardener doffed his cap and bowed to the best of his ability as his employers approached.

Erik watched Christine closely as she blushed when Mrs. Flynn complimented her on her lovely dress, and noticed that she demurred when the Eliza and Kathleen curtsied to her. Erik thanked them and dismissed them before leading Christine into the dining room, where a sumptuous brunch awaited.

"You'll get used to them," Erik advised in a mildly reprimanding tone as he held the chair for Christine. "They only want to please you."

"It isn't that. When I was on tour, I became accustomed to having a small staff," Christine said quietly. "It's that…it feels…awkward. They _know_, Erik. They _know_ what we've been up to. They _know_ what we'll be doing once we retire."

"What do you mean?" he asked innocently.

She caressed the back of his hand, drawing circles on the back of it with her thumb. "If I have to explain it to you—"

He suppressed the jolt that ran through his body when she touched him, but was crestfallen by the implication he gathered from her words. "I meant," he said hesitantly, "are you embarrassed by me?"

"Perish the thought!" Her eyes flashed with ire as she threw a piece of celery at him. "You ninny! I could just as easily as you the same question." She rolled her eyes. "What I am trying to say is…well…they'll _know_ we'll be…celebrating our marriage."

He blinked vacuously, drawing a blank as he tried to figure out what she was saying. "Don't Americans celebrate their weddings?"

Snickering from the kitchen alerted Erik to interlopers listening in on his very private conversation with his bride. "I should hope so," Mrs. Flynn said loudly.

"Ah. I think I understand," he said knowingly. "If it is privacy you want, then we should take the wedding trip I was telling you about."

"I think it's an excellent idea," she agreed, "at least until the honeymoon shine has dimmed."

Erik growled seductively. "My love for you will never dim." He leaned across the table, kissed her cheek, and whispered in her ear. "Let's go upstairs."

Christine was hesitant. "But…but it's broad daylight."

He was puzzled. "Does it matter? We are French. We are married. This is permitted."

It was all the prompting she needed. She took him by the hand and led the way until Erik pulled her to a stop halfway up the stairs.

"I need another kiss," he said, taking her in his arms. He lifted her off her feet as he kissed her, and broke away only long enough to guide to the master suite.

A fire had been lit, and cast a golden light into the room. The rich mahogany furniture glowed in the firelight, reflecting the Chinese reds and yellows that Erik had chosen for the master bedroom when he thought he'd never share his life with a woman. Aromatic wood in the fireplace lent a fragrance to the air and made the room even more inviting. Exotic orchids in bloom had been brought up from the conservatory, further enhancing the beauty of the wedding bower.

The bed had been turned down, revealing luxurious silk sheets embroidered in ivory thread with the couple's new monogram. She ran her fingertips lightly across the stitches and murmured the names of the letters as she touched them. She looked at Erik with love in her eyes when she spoke. "Christine and Erik Duquesne."

"Mrs. Duquesne," Erik whispered, as he took off his morning coat. He glanced down, his eyes following the line of his pants. "Allow me to introduce you to the staff."

Christine tittered, then laughed out loud. "Is that what you call it?"

"Only when I am thinking of you," he said, pulling down his suspenders.

Christine leapt from the bed and dashed across the room to turn the key in the door. "No surprises," she explained.

Erik halted. "Speaking of surprises, we should search for that damned cat." He looked behind the plants, under the furniture, and behind the curtains while Christine checked the linen closet in the bath.

"A wedding trip is sounding better and better by the moment," she called to him.

"I can't wait to have you all to myself." His thoughts turned to stories he had read about other married couples. "You know, in Europe, relatives and friends still accompany the newlyweds to their bedroom."

"Thank God we are not in Europe!" she said with real relief.

"Imagine what it is like to have your parents escort you to your—" His voice trailed away.

"I've heard that they would even wait for proof that the marriage was—" She stopped without finishing her thoughts.

He shuddered. "Makes me glad we have no living relatives."

Christine's lower lip trembled. "My father promised me the Angel of Music. I think he would have liked you very much, Erik."

"I didn't mean to make you sad, especially not on our wedding day."

"I'm not sad. I only wish he could have known you." She reminded him of the bereft child Erik remembered from long ago, when a recently orphaned Christine first arrived at the opera house in Paris.

Erik knew something that might help. In the corner was a music stand and from it hung his violin, suspended by the carved wooden scroll. "Would you like to hear some of his music?"

Christine nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. She reclined among the pillows on the bed as Erik tuned the violin and rosined the bow. He played a song she often spoke of; it was her father's favorite, _The Resurrection of Lazarus_.

As for Erik, he lost himself in the music, progressing from Schubert to his original compositions that were written only for Christine's pleasure. He played for an hour or more, forgetting everything around him until he heard her singing.

Christine's voice drew him out of his reverie and brought him back to her. "Come to me, my Angel of Music," she sang. She had disrobed and slipped into their marriage bed. She lifted the covers and, with a wave of her hand, she bade him join her.

He was beside her instantly. He closed his eyes as she removed his mask, and held his breath as she ran her hands across his chest and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. With a sly grin, she pushed gently on his shoulders, and he sank into the pillows behind him.

"Mrs. Duquesne is very pleased to meet the staff," she said in her most beguiling whisper, as they became one.

-0-0-0-

Before a year had passed, Nellie Ambrosia Duquesne, whom her parents called Nellie Rose, came into the world. She was perfect in every way, save for a small blemish above her right temple. Her father told her that was where the angel of music kissed her when she was born.

Their next child, a son, was born less than a year later. Joshua Daaé Duquesne took after his father and rarely appeared in public, but preferred studying plants instead. He became a famous botanist, and discovered several new species of orchids in the jungles of South America. One he named "Christine" after his mother; another he named "Ghost."

No one ever knew why.

-0-0-0-

The End


End file.
